Alternate History
by Incarnadine
Summary: AU. Snape's first Defence lesson goes horribly wrong for Hermione when she is caught in a freak spell explosion and finds herself in a strangely altered version of the world she knows. While desperate to go back, she can't resist getting involved when she realises her memories may be the key to thwarting Voldemort's plans. But can staying lead to anything but heartbreak for her?
1. When I See Stars

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Harry Potter; J.K. Rowling does.

**Author's Notes:** This story makes use of that venerable cliché, accidental travel into a parallel world or alternate universe. A good many of the characters will be OoC as compared to their canon versions, and the timelines of the two worlds do not match up exactly. As this story parts ways with Harry Potter canon somewhere during Chapter 9 of _Half-Blood Prince_, anything introduced after that point may not be in this story, and, even if it is, may appear very differently.

There will be around 30 chapters, of which 8 are already written. At present I am intending to add a new chapter every 2-3 weeks. This may or may not be a sustainable update schedule. Time will tell.

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**Alternate History**

**1\. When I See Stars**

Hermione had given up trying to convince them that she was right, even though she _knew_ that she was. What did it matter that Professor Snape was going to be teaching Defence this year? He could hardly be any worse at it than most of the other teachers they'd had. Really, compared to Umbridge, she was willing to bet that he would seem like an excellent – maybe even a _fair_ – teacher. And he wasn't going to teach them Dark curses, or use them for experiments, or whatever it was that Harry and Ron were afraid of. How they thought that he would get away with anything of the kind while under the watchful eye of Professor Dumbledore was beyond her. No; it was quite apparent that, as usual, they simply weren't thinking at all.

As they walked along the first floor corridor towards the Defence classroom, she couldn't resist making one last appeal for sanity, for all that she knew that it probably wouldn't do any good. "Honestly, what on earth do you imagine he's going to do to us? Everything is going to be _fine_. Much better than lessons with Professor Umbridge, or... or Lockhart." She blushed just a little, remembering how silly she had been in her second year. Silly about a _man_, too! That was not like Hermione, not in the least. Harry and Ron exchanged a look and gave matching quiet laughs, while she sighed and shook her head. "Anyway, trust me; the world isn't going to end just because Professor Snape is teaching Defence now. You'll see."

Later on, Hermione would remember those words and wonder if the universe had a sense of humour.

The lesson got off to an inauspicious start when the Professor snapped at them to keep their textbooks in their bags, lectured them for five minutes straight, and then demanded that they all demonstrate their duelling skills. Hermione's heart sank; she knew her strengths, and she also knew that practical Defence was not one of them. It wasn't the spells themselves – as usual, she had managed to learn all of the magic involved remarkably quickly – it was simply that she had slow reflexes, and tended to freeze up in tense situations. That was why she always tried to be prepared for everything. But, as Professor Snape would no doubt delight in reminding her, poor duelling skills were not an option for one of Harry Potter's best friends. She needed to improve, and she knew it.

And she _tried_ to apply herself during the mock-duel, she really did – her close call with Dolohov at the Ministry was never very far from her mind – but it was very difficult. Especially since her partner for the exercise was Lavender Brown, who seemed more interested in making sheep's eyes at Ron than in paying any attention to what she was doing. Hermione scowled at her oblivious opponent. _I wish you joy of him. Heaven knows, I've spent long enough trying to get him to notice me, but he never has._

Then she realised that she was daydreaming – and about a _boy_, of all things – in the middle of a lesson, and she struggled to bring her mind back to the task at hand. Before she could collect herself sufficiently, an irritated Professor Snape bore down upon the hapless pair and favoured them with a poisonous glare. He sneered. "Miss Granger, Miss Brown, you are supposed to be _duelling_. Kindly do so immediately, or you will both find yourselves practising in detention tonight."

The threat of getting a detention before the end of the first week of term had an electrifying effect on both girls, and they rather hurriedly started to throw hexes at each other. It was almost like being in the DA again – or would be, if she could somehow ignore the highly critical Professor who was watching her every move. Hermione refused to let his scrutiny bother her, though she _did_ try to cast a few spells non-verbally just to show that she'd been listening to the lecture – but of course, her effort was to no avail. She'd learned a long time ago that Professor Snape would never admit to being impressed by her work, no matter how well she managed to do.

She sighed – there was no point in sulking about how unfair everything was – and concentrated on dodging and deflecting the poorly-aimed spells that Lavender sent her way. Had it not been a practice, and had she not been so determined to cast non-verbally, Hermione would have won very quickly; she might not have been a very good duellist, but at least she was _concentrating_. Around them, other pairs fought with more flashy – and more accurate – spells, but her attention was fixed entirely on Lavender. It was just a classroom exercise; there was no reason to care what anyone else was doing.

That sort of attitude was all very well, but it _did_ mean that she never saw what hit her.

One of Lavender's spells was on target for once, and Hermione actually succeeded in countering it with a non-verbal _Protego_ – and then something very strange happened. There were, inevitably, a number of stray spells flying across the room, and as Lavender's spell ricocheted off the shield, it collided with one of these. The impact between the two was loud and violent, an explosion of varicoloured light. A spike of near-deafening sound reverberated painfully through Hermione's head, leaving her dazed even as the rush of expanding air knocked her to the ground.

Her vision blurred for a moment, and black spots danced ominously before her eyes – but she took deep calming breaths and somehow managed not to lose consciousness. Not wanting to cause a scene, she tried to stand up... which proved to be a mistake. The room swam out of focus again, and her legs refused to straighten under her properly, so she collapsed back to the floor with an indignant huff. Of all the places to have an accident like this, why did it have to be here, under the cruel and unsympathetic eyes of –

"Miss Granger! Are you alright?"

_Professor Snape?_

Sure enough, it was Professor Snape's voice – but it didn't sound quite right. There was some emotion there that didn't belong. After a few seconds, Hermione's sluggish mind realised what it was. _Concern_. As strange as it sounded, Professor Snape was worried about her. Was she _dying_, then? Panic rose up in her chest. Surely he would only sound quite so afraid for her wellbeing if she were actually at Death's door? She didn't feel that bad – only weak and a bit dizzy – but maybe he knew something she didn't.

Once again she struggled to get up, and once again she was forced to admit defeat. "My head," she murmured, clutching at the floor and hoping that the room would stop spinning soon.

And then, bizarrely, Professor Snape was standing right before her, looking down at her with an expression she couldn't quite make out. "Miss Granger, did you hit your head when you fell?" He didn't shout at her. He didn't take any points from Gryffindor. She couldn't understand it.

Hermione blinked a few times. "I... don't know. Maybe?" She wasn't physically injured. Aside from her trembling, uncooperative limbs, there didn't seem to be much wrong with her at all. So why was Professor Snape so upset? Perhaps this was how teachers were _supposed_ to react to an accident in their class, but she'd never seen any teacher at Hogwarts – let alone _Snape_ – actually do it.

"Look at me." Crisp efficiency had replaced the usual sneering disdain in the Professor's voice, and Hermione found herself meeting his eyes more out of surprise than anything else. Was it her imagination, or was there more warmth there than she'd expected to find? She couldn't focus on him; her mind was in a whirl. _Something is wrong here_. A shiver ran down her spine, but she wasn't cold. Snape spoke again, in a gentle voice that she'd never heard from him before. "You need to see Madam Pomfrey." He turned back towards the class and barked, "Mr. Potter, Mr. Weasley – escort Miss Granger to the hospital wing and come straight back, do you understand?"

Two other shapes moved towards her; she squinted up at them and saw that it was Harry and Ron. Or, at least, it _looked_ like them. She wasn't sure if these people really _were_ her best friends – because, if Snape had seemed too concerned about her plight, her two boys didn't look as though they cared at all. While they did help her to her feet, and support her as she walked towards the door, they didn't say a word to her, or even so much as look at her. _Yes, something is very wrong indeed_. Cold tendrils of fear coiled around her heart. What was going on?

As she was about to leave the room, Hermione heard Professor Snape clear his throat. She looked back and met his eyes once more – and this time she couldn't look away. His lips didn't move, but she heard his voice as clear as day nonetheless: _"Don't say anything to them."_ Then he dropped his gaze, and suddenly she could move again. She stumbled out into the corridor, her heartbeat echoing in her ears. Snape had spoken to her inside her mind, warning her against Harry and Ron. But how had he done that? And why _would_ he do that? It didn't make sense; nothing did. If only she could believe that this was nothing more than the result of a head injury!

Awkwardly, without looking at the boys who should have been her friends, Hermione said, "Thanks for helping me." She felt fairly confident that Professor Snape hadn't meant that she should be completely silent, only that she should be careful with her words.

"The Professor told us to." Harry's voice sounded gruffer and harsher than it usually did.

His obvious indifference to her made Hermione want to cry. "Yes, well, thank you anyway," she said, remembering her mother's lectures on good manners.

Ron snorted. "Gryffindors," he said, with every sign of great disdain.

Shocked, Hermione blurted out: "But _you_–" And then she stopped herself. Snape's warning echoed in her memory, reproaching her. _Don't say anything to them_. "Never mind."

"No, please go on, Granger – I am _so_ curious as to what you were going to say about us." The sound of her surname on Harry's lips stunned her into horrified silence. This was all _wrong_. This wasn't Harry. It couldn't be Harry. Her best friend didn't talk that way – not to her, not to anybody save perhaps Malfoy. Even worse, there was a sardonic cast to his features that made him look quite unlike his normal self. _This has to be a dream. A terrible nightmare._ Tears pricked the corners of her eyes, and she trembled miserably.

Even though _he_ was all wrong too, Hermione was still glad when Ron interrupted. "Leave it out, Harry. It's not _right_ to start having a go at a girl while you're taking her to the hospital wing." He didn't seem to have any sort of special concern for her, but it _did_ comfort her at least a little to think that Ron was still a decent person, whatever else was wrong with the world.

Harry scowled. "I wasn't _having a go_ at her," he protested, an unfamiliar note of petulance and nasal whine in his voice. Ron glared wordlessly at him and he subsided, though not without grumbling resentfully and pulling an unpleasant face at his friend. They walked the rest of the way to the infirmary in silence, which came as a blessed relief to Hermione. As strange and unsettling as it was to be with her boys and not say anything to them, it was far better than trying to make conversation only to be reminded that they weren't behaving like her boys at all.

_If this __is__ a dream, how do I wake up?_

Once they reached the hospital wing, she found that Madam Pomfrey was exactly the same as ever. The nurse hurried over to them, all concern and eagerness, ready to help – and for just a moment, Hermione could almost let herself believe that everything was normal. _Almost_.

"Miss Granger? What's wrong? What happened?"

Hermione had to suppress a hysterical laugh. _I wish I knew._ "I... um, well, I was in Defence..."

"She just collapsed." Harry cut in. "I don't know why. Snape told us to bring her to you – maybe you can work it out." He shrugged and nudged Ron. "C'mon, Weasley, we'd better get back to class."

"Right you are, mate." He looked like Ron. He sounded like Ron. As far as any of her senses could tell, he _was_ Ron. And yet he couldn't be, because Ron wouldn't leave her in the infirmary with barely a nod of acknowledgement, not even if he were really angry with her. Nor would Harry follow him without a word, without any sign of affection whatsoever – no matter _what_ Snape had said about returning to class. Everything was wrong. Harry and Ron were wrong. Hell, they weren't even _Gryffindors _anymore by the sound of it. And, well, she supposed that everything else might have a rational explanation – but not that. _That _had Hermione completely at a loss.

"Now, Miss Granger, how are you feeling?" At least one person was acting normally; Madam Pomfrey would never be deterred from seeing to a patient's wellbeing. Hermione smiled weakly.

"A bit dizzy still," she admitted. "And wobbly."

"You ought to have said so at once," Madam Pomfrey said, reproachfully. She firmly escorted Hermione to the nearest bed, and all but forced her to sit down, shaking her head disapprovingly. "That's better. The last thing I need is patients injuring themselves further in my infirmary. Now, tell me exactly what happened during your class."

"I – I'm not sure. I don't remember fainting or anything like that. Somehow I was on the floor, I couldn't focus my eyes properly, and when I tried to stand up, I couldn't do it." Hermione took a deep breath to steady her nerves. "Really, though, I can't _remember_ anything. I think that's why Professor Snape was worried – he asked if I'd hit my head. Maybe I did; it'd explain why I feel so confused." She wasn't sure how much she should say; the mediwitch couldn't do much to help her if she didn't give all the details. But, on the other hand, she didn't want to give the impression that she was insane. _Maybe I __am__ insane._ "I mean – well – nothing feels quite right."

"Are you in any pain?" Madam Pomfrey seemed suddenly much more alert, and Hermione cursed inwardly. Apparently her vague allusion to the problem was more than enough to worry the nurse – although she doubted that even the most assiduous medical attendant would ever suspect exactly what she meant. _Fifteen minutes ago, the world was a different place._ How was Madam Pomfrey supposed to fix that? How was anyone?

"No, there isn't any pain. I just... I feel fuzzy-headed. Like I've forgotten things I ought to know." Hermione shook her head and winced slightly. "And it's strange to be told that I collapsed for no reason. I don't know – I'm scared."

Madam Pomfrey gave her a thin-lipped smile of sympathy. "Yes, dear, I imagine you would be." She clucked her tongue soothingly. "Not knowing what's wrong with you is never easy for a patient, though some bear with it more calmly than others. Now, then – have you been eating and drinking normally during the holidays? Or have you been missing meals and staying up late to spend more time on your homework?" There was a dry note to the nurse's voice that made Hermione feel a little ashamed of herself, even though she hadn't skipped a meal since her third year.

"I think I've been doing everything more or less normally," she said, slowly. "Or, at least, I don't remember having done anything that might cause me to collapse in the middle of the day." But then, she _did_ remember a lot of things that apparently had never happened, so what good _was_ her memory really, when all was said and done?

"Hmm." Madam Pomfrey looked thoughtful for a moment, and then waved her wand over Hermione in a complicated pattern. After a brief pause, a pale blue light appeared; it hung in mid-air for about ten seconds before vanishing. "Well, it looks like you're not pregnant, at least," the mediwitch said, in a brisk and professional voice.

Hermione froze, part embarrassed and part indignant. "I beg your pardon?" Why would anyone even bother to test her for that? Wasn't it obvious that she'd never jeopardise her studies in such a way?

Maybe it wasn't, though, because Madam Pomfrey laughed. "Oh, my dear," she said, gently. "You're a sixteen-year-old girl, and you nearly passed out during a not particularly taxing lesson. It seemed like a good idea to rule that out first." She raised an eyebrow. "And don't you give me anything about your reputation, either, young lady. I've worked at this school for decades – I know teenagers, and I know well enough that the quiet bookworms are in no way immune to such temptations, whatever the teachers might want to think." Pomfrey sighed and then went on, "Be that as it may, you're all clear there. It _would_ have explained the situation quite handily, of course – but never mind that now."

She still felt rather affronted, but Hermione knew that the mediwitch had to do her job, which was to figure out what was wrong. Doubt gnawed at her, whispered that there was no way this could even _be_ figured out, let alone cured, but she forced the thoughts away and tried to sit as still as possible. Madam Pomfrey cast a number of unfamiliar spells over her, and magical lights flared over the bed, changing colour in a way that meant nothing to Hermione but hopefully told the nurse something useful. This went on for some minutes, and by the end she couldn't help but start to fidget and worry.

After the spells stopped, Madam Pomfrey made a number of notes on a piece of parchment, and then turned back to Hermione. "Well, Miss Granger, I'm happy to say that I can't find anything wrong with you at all. The level of magical residue on your person is a _little_ high, true, but it's still within normal bounds. In fact, you seem to be perfectly healthy." She smiled at Hermione's perplexed expression. "I know that makes it rather puzzling that you should have collapsed – but, on the bright side, at least it doesn't appear to be a symptom of a serious underlying problem."

"I – yes, I suppose you're right." Hermione was honestly rather disappointed. She'd hoped that there would be something physically wrong, something that would explain what had happened to her. Why Professor Snape suddenly cared if she was injured, and why Harry and Ron did not. Why she knew that she'd been hit by spells in a classroom duel, but had apparently collapsed for no reason in the middle of a completely different Defence lesson. But then, _was_ there any sensible, rational way to account for those things? Her head spun and her thoughts were muddled.

"But your inquiring mind would prefer to find a proper solution, I'm sure," Madam Pomfrey said, shrewdly. Hermione, startled, looked up at her and let out a strangled snort. It sounded rather silly when put like that. "I understand the feeling, dear – it was part of why I went into medimagic in the first place – but after all these years I've come to realise that you shouldn't complain if someone turns out to be unexpectedly healthy." She smiled. "How do you feel now? Has the dizziness passed?"

Hermione shrugged and tried to stand up. The blood seemed to rush to her head, and she swayed slightly. "No, I don't think so. But – you said there was nothing wrong with me?"

Madam Pomfrey patted her gently on the shoulder. "There is nothing wrong with you that I can detect. It's likely that either you aren't getting enough sleep or you're dehydrated. Neither of those things would show up on a health scan, but would make you feel weak." The nurse poured out a glass of water and handed it to Hermione. "My suggestion is that you drink this and then lay down here for a little while. It should pass soon enough, and you'll be right back to normal." She gave Hermione a rather stern look, and said, "And no pretending to have recovered so that you don't have to miss any classes, either." Her eyes flashed with amusement, and she added, "I don't often have to say that."

"That doesn't surprise me." Hermione had seen her classmates' attitude to lessons. It was not one that she had ever shared, though in the present circumstances she did feel unusually reluctant to go back to her lessons. She still didn't know what was going on; she'd hoped that the medical examination would help, but all it had told her was that she wasn't sick or injured. Or not only that – if she'd been under the effects of a malicious spell, she imagined that Madam Pomfrey would have been able to tell. Maybe eliminating possibilities was useful, but she wished she could get a concrete answer. She sighed. "I'm sure I'll feel better in no time," she said, with more optimism than she felt.

"I'll leave you in peace to rest," Madam Pomfrey said, turning back the covers on the bed Hermione was sitting on. "You don't have to sleep, but it might help. And do make sure you drink that water." So saying, the nurse gathered up her papers and bustled across the hospital wing towards her private office. Hermione watched her go, and then shrugged and reached for the water. She'd always been told to respect doctors and follow their advice, so she obediently drained the glass, took off her outer robes, and lay down on the bed. There were far too many thoughts in her head for her to be able to sleep, but she did gradually begin to relax and let her eyes drift closed.

She ought to have known that the peace and solitude couldn't last. Hermione wasn't sure how long she had been lying there when she became aware of the fact that she wasn't alone in the room anymore, but it hadn't been long enough. She didn't want to see anyone or go outside the hospital wing until the world had decided to go back to normal. Whoever had come to visit her would just have to go away, because she wasn't in any mood to talk to them.

"Miss Granger." Of course, it _would_ be a teacher. Hermione couldn't ignore a teacher; she wasn't made that way. She stretched a little and then sat up to look at her visitor. Professor Snape stood a few feet away from her bed, holding her schoolbag in one hand. "You left this in my classroom," he said, although the explanation wasn't really necessary. Perhaps Hermione was imagining things, but he seemed almost nervous, which wasn't like Professor Snape at all. "I could have asked Potter or Weasley to take it when they escorted you, but I must confess that I wanted the opportunity to talk to you privately."

It was suddenly very difficult to breathe. "Did you, sir? I – what did you want to talk to me about?"

Professor Snape didn't answer immediately. He looked at her carefully, as though she were a puzzle he was trying to solve, and then the most incredible thing happened – he smiled. "I'll get to that shortly. It would be remiss of me not to ask you if you are feeling any better."

Still wary, Hermione said only, "Yes, sir, quite a bit better." She thought for a moment, and then added, "Madam Pomfrey says there's nothing physically wrong with me."

"Well, that is something of a relief," Professor Snape replied, and it seemed as if he meant it. He put her bag down on the floor and sat in the chair next to her bed. Leaning forwards a little, he said, "Don't spread this story around too much, but I was worried about you."

Hermione was stunned. "Who are you and what have you done to Professor Snape?" She knew that it wasn't the wisest thing to say, but she couldn't help herself.

He actually _laughed_. Hermione stared. Much as she wouldn't allow her boys to speak ill of the Professor in her hearing, she was still slightly surprised to find him look so... human. It didn't last long; he quickly sobered and said, "That is the issue, isn't it, Miss Granger?"

"What – what do you mean?" Hermione was flustered, and she had quite forgotten to call him 'sir', but she couldn't deal with the situation becoming any stranger than it already was.

"After you fell in my classroom, I saw the way you looked at me. I could tell you were confused by the way I was behaving – as you are now – and I think I know why."

Her first thought was that he couldn't _know_ anything, not just from looking into her eyes. Then she remembered hearing his voice in her mind, and it all made sense. There _was_ an explanation; it just wasn't the one he was giving her. After the morning she'd had, this realisation actually made her angry – even if he _was_ a teacher. In a flat, cold voice, Hermione said, "You used Legilimency on me."


	2. Problems and No Solutions

**Author's Note:** As I've managed to finish writing Chapter 9, I decided to post this chapter a day earlier than I'd originally intended. Now to get started on Chapter 10...

I may have taken slightly too much pleasure in alternate Snape's criticisms of canon Snape.

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**2\. Problems and No Solutions**

Professor Snape looked nothing short of astonished. "You know what Legilimency is?" This seemed to Hermione to be rather missing the point, but she didn't say anything. He was still a teacher, and she had never been as comfortable as Harry with lashing out at teachers, even when they probably deserved it. There was an odd noise, and she realised that Snape was chuckling. "I don't know why I'm surprised, actually. You know about everything, even old and obscure magic that you have no right or reason to learn." His words were fairly similar to things that he'd said to her in the past, but the tone was entirely different – this time, it sounded almost like affectionate teasing.

"Yes, I know what it is, and I know you used it on me earlier. You _invaded my mind_, without my consent." Hermione glared at him, but kept her voice as calm and level as she could. It would do no good to become hysterical.

"I know. I should apologise," Professor Snape said, with every appearance of genuine contrition. "All I can say in my defence is that I was worried; you collapsed for no reason, and... I was afraid that you might have suffered some sort of mental attack. What I found was definitely not something I was prepared for. I... didn't see many of your memories, you can rest assured of that – but the mind is a complicated thing, and I _did_ see some of them. It – there's no other way to put this. You have memories that do not match the events that I _know_ to have happened. And yet they are genuine memories. I cannot account for it at all."

Hermione was torn between anger and relief. "You – I _am_ glad that you know about this, and that you believe what you saw, but – but what you did... I hope that you don't do that any time a student falls ill in one of your lessons. _Sir_."

"No, I wouldn't usually even think of doing such a thing." He frowned. "I'm honestly not sure why I did. It seemed like the right thing to do at the time, I suppose. I'm not really accustomed to students falling down in my lessons for no reason, but that is not a sufficient excuse. I am sorry that I encroached on your mental privacy, Miss Granger. I should not have done it." Professor Snape spoke rather stiffly, and Hermione got the impression that, as different as he was from the man she knew, he was just as unused to apologising. "Be that as it may, I cannot forget what I have seen, and so I have to ask – what are you going to do?"

"I really don't know," she admitted. "What _can_ I do but try to get on with my life? But – I don't _know_ things that I ought to know, and I remember things that never happened, so how am I supposed to carry on as if nothing's wrong?" She took a deep breath, fighting against the rising tide of panic. "And, you know, I can't help wondering about it, either. I mean – what happened to me? Was that life a dream? Is _this_ the dream? Or... or is something else going on here? Is there something – or someone – behind this? I don't know what to think."

"No more do I," Professor Snape said, gravely. "I have never heard of anything like this happening before; I have never seen reference to such a thing, not even in the most ancient and esoteric of books. Although it is possible that those who experience whatever happened to you tend not to tell anyone, for fear of being declared insane." He offered a weak smile. "I can at least assure you that this is not a dream – or, at least, that it is not _your _dream. Then again, I suppose you might not believe me. You might only trust your own perception of events."

"I was never really that into solipsism as a worldview." This drew another chuckle from Snape, and for a moment Hermione felt pleased with herself. Then reality reasserted itself, and she sighed. "I wonder if – would you mind telling me exactly what you saw in my mind?" she asked, fixing the teacher with a steady, unblinking gaze.

Professor Snape hesitated for a moment before deciding on an answer. "You have to understand – the mind is not a book, to be easily read. It's more like deciphering a pictogram than anything akin to reading, really. A Legilimens will see and hear fragmented memories, feel some of the emotions of the other person, and can even go looking for specific ideas within the mind – but all of that means nothing without interpretation. So it can be very difficult to figure out _exactly_ what someone else is thinking and feeling even with Legilimency, because who _you_ are and how you feel will necessarily colour the reads you get from others."

Hermione wasn't sure if the Professor was stalling, or just trying to make sure that she had a basic grounding in the subject before he answered the question. He _was_ a teacher, after all – and, as little time as she'd spent in his company, she could already tell that he was a better one than the Snape with whom she was familiar. "Okay, I get that," she said, trying – unsuccessfully – to conceal her irritation and impatience.

"Good, then." He gave a wry smile. "I'm sorry, it's just that even the people who _have _heard of Legilimency tend to have a very inaccurate idea of what it actually entails. I thought it would be as well to ensure that we were on the same page before I told you anything about what I found in your mind." Professor Snape stopped speaking and seemed to be organising his thoughts. "Right, so what I was looking for was any details on what had just happened to you – and straight away I came across an image that didn't agree with what I knew from my own memory."

"The duelling exercise." It wasn't a question; Hermione already knew what he must have seen.

"Yes, exactly – or, at least, that was how I contextualised it. What I actually _saw_ was Lavender Brown hexing you and you deflecting that attack – and then some sort of spell explosion. None of which happened at all today, or not from my perspective, anyway." His face took on a rather pained expression. "Then everything shifted a little, and I believe that you must have started to think about me and my likely reaction – because the next impression I got from you was unpleasant, to say the least. I saw some of your memories of me and... well, frankly, I think that _abominable_ is the only word for such behaviour. I know that I am not the best or the kindest of teachers, but I would certainly hope that I am not as _abusive_ as you seem to remember."

"I wouldn't know," Hermione reminded him. In a weird way, it amused her to realise that this was the first time she had ever heard anyone refer to Professor Snape's actions in lessons as _abusive_. And it was the man himself who was saying it! Or – well, no, this wasn't the same man. The very fact that he was there in the hospital wing talking civilly to her was enough proof that things were not at all as she remembered. "But in your – his? – defence, I think you're more troubled than anything else."

Professor Snape did not look impressed. "Troubled? That is a cheap excuse for atrocious behaviour, Miss Granger; you should be ashamed to defend someone like... _that_ me. If I did not know how to tell fake memories from genuine... well, I would not believe that anyone like that would be allowed to teach at a school in _any_ reality." He let out an indignant snort. "Not to mention that I find it unpleasant to think that you were surprised that I was worried about a possibly sick student. What sort of person – much less a teacher – is that callous?"

"You were. I – in my fourth year, I got caught in the crossfire of a fight, and my teeth grew down well over my chin. It was awful. And you – you just looked straight at me and said you didn't see any difference." Hermione knew that she had flushed bright red; she didn't have to see her reflection to feel the heat in her face. She hadn't realised that she was still so affected by that particular incident.

"I would never." Snape looked horrified. "That's... well, that sounds more like the boys who used to bully me when I was a student here than it does like _me_. Teachers shouldn't _bully_ their students."

"You can look in my mind again if you don't believe me."

"No – no, I _do_ believe you. And I don't really want to see myself do something like that." Professor Snape shuddered. "Truly, yours must be a very different world. I would honestly never do such a thing. Especially not to one of my favourite students."

This was possibly the most ridiculous thing Hermione had heard since the world had gone mad. "One of your favourites? _Me?_ Seriously? But – I'm a Gryffindor!"

"Why should that matter?" Snape clearly had no understanding of the character of his counterpart. "I mentor exceptional students from all four Houses, not just Slytherin."

"You mean the way Professor Slughorn does – or did?" It was meant as an honest question, but Snape seemed to take it as an insult. He sneered.

"It is not _un_like his precious Slug Club, I will grant you that – but I prefer to look for academically gifted children to teach, rather than attempt to befriend students with connections, or those I think might be useful to me somehow in later life." He scowled. "That ridiculous man and his crystallised pineapple!" Snape seemed to have forgotten that he was discussing a fellow teacher with a student, and that his comments might be seen as unprofessional behaviour.

Hermione, who had not yet met Professor Slughorn, couldn't help but snort at the expression on Snape's face. The glare she got in return, while comparatively mild, was enough to make her want to get the discussion back on track. "Your club sounds... well, it's generous of you to run it." This was not entirely a compliment; it was also a question. She was having a hard time squaring the reputation of Slytherin House with the idea of its Head being responsible for an Inter-House mentoring initiative.

Snape shrugged. "I like teaching intelligent children," he said, in a matter-of-fact voice. "Most of my students drive me to distraction with their ignorance, so I like to take some time to help the ones that _don't_ make me want to change my name and move to Belize." Hermione made a strangled giggling noise, and Snape raised an expressive eyebrow at her. "Oh, and don't fall into the trap of assuming that it's entirely altruistic on my part, Miss Granger. Just because I'm not as transparent as some about my ulterior motives doesn't mean I don't have any."

"I can get you some crystallised pineapple, if you really want," Hermione said, with a hint of mischief.

"That... won't be necessary. Ugh." Snape did laugh, though, so he clearly wasn't that disgusted. "In any case, my favoured students are the best of all four Houses. Perhaps in my student days I _did_ hate Gryffindors – but really, I'm a grown man now; it would be stupid for me to still feel that way. Besides, my best friend these days was in Gryffindor." He threw that bombshell into the conversation as though it were nothing, but before Hermione had a chance to ask questions, or even really think about it, he swept on with: "Which brings me to Potter and Weasley. The impression I got from your memories is that you believe that the three of you are great friends – am I correct?"

Those two horrible, poisonous words: _you believe_. Hermione wanted to scream. They _were_ her friends. They had to be. "Yes, we've been friends since first year." To her credit, her voice didn't shake much. "A troll got into the castle at Halloween, and they saved me from it – that was how it all started."

"Ah, typical Gryffindor bravery and heroism." There was a hint of mockery in Snape's words, but it was not unkindly meant. "I take it that – to you – the boys are Gryffindors like you?"

"Yes." She let out a morose sigh. "I'd already figured out that they aren't anymore, though." Anyone would have realised the truth just from the way Ron had said _Gryffindors_ – as if it were a dirty word.

"They are in my House," Professor Snape said, calmly. "And, as far as I am concerned, they always have been." He looked curiously at Hermione. "It is strange, isn't it? I remember them being Sorted into Slytherin – and you, with just as much clarity, remember a different Sorting where those two boys, acting very differently, became Gryffindors instead."

"Maybe I've gone insane," Hermione said, with a rather desperate sort of cheerfulness.

Snape gave this as much consideration as he would have done a serious suggestion, but then shook his head. "No, Miss Granger, I do not think you are insane. Your memories are coherent and your mind is healthy. An insane mind is something like a broken mirror. You can't hide the cracks in it for very long."

"Do you get seven years of bad luck for it, too?" Hermione didn't know where the urge to make flippant comments was coming from. But then, maybe it was just that she had a choice: she could joke and laugh, or cry and go mad – and for the moment at least, she was choosing the former.

The Professor gave her a disapproving look, but there was a hint of humour lurking in his dark eyes. Really, the man wasn't a patch on the Snape _she _knew for looking intimidating. "Insanity is not a joking matter, Miss Granger," he said, stiffly. Then the façade gave way a little. "I would imagine that it's far more than seven years of bad luck, though." It wasn't really funny, but Hermione had to bite her lip to keep from laughing out loud. _Probably just a nervous reaction._

"So, if I'm not insane, what _did_ happen?" Hermione asked, insistently. All she could think was that she needed to find out how to get back to normality, so she could be with the _real_ Harry and Ron again. Much as they infuriated her at times, they were still her dearest friends – and what was she supposed to do without them?

"I really have no idea." Professor Snape sounded almost as agitated as she felt. "As I said, I have never heard of anything like this. It may take a lot of research, and even then we might not find anything even remotely useful." He sighed. "All I can say for the moment is what this _isn't_ – and you are most definitely not insane, nor under any mind-affecting spell."

"Memory modification?" Hermione suggested, more out of a desire to show that she was thinking about it than any real hope that there would be such a simple explanation.

"I think not that either," Snape said. "The memories in your head are genuine, as far as I can tell. Faked ones tend to be fairly obvious, even when a powerful wizard of great cunning and subtlety is involved in planting them. It's very difficult to do any sort of mind or memory magic well at all, let alone do it without leaving any trace behind. I might not be able to tell what the original memories had been, but I'd know if yours had been faked."

"That's somewhat reassuring, at least," Hermione said, uncertainly. "Except for the part where I have no idea what's going on."

"All I can think is that maybe some sort of time magic is at work." Snape looked thoughtful. "Strange things can happen to wizards who meddle with time, they say." Hermione remembered that Professor McGonagall had said something similar when she'd handed over the Time Turner, back in third year. Perhaps Snape noticed something in her expression, because he asked, sharply: "I don't suppose you _have_ been meddling with time?"

"Not recently," Hermione said, with a slight smile.

Professor Snape's eyes widened. "Not... recently...? You will have to tell me that story sometime." He shot a wary look towards the office. "Much as I would like to hear it now, we should err on the side of prudence – I cast a spell to distract Madam Pomfrey, but I have no idea how much longer I can expect it to last." If he had not been a teacher himself, Hermione would have objected to the use of magic on a staff member – but as it was, she could only disapprove in silence. Apparently unaware of her mood, Snape said, "I suppose that leaves _parallel universe_ as an explanation."

Hermione rolled her eyes at this. "I thought multiverse theory was nothing more than a hypothetical thought experiment."

"It's _supposed_ to be." Snape looked rather chagrined. "But it's about all I've got left. A sideslip or something..." He checked himself before he could go any further, and flushed slightly. "Sorry – I have a... friend who really likes Muggle science fiction."

"Right." Hermione decided that she just couldn't deal with the concept of a Professor Snape who either liked Muggle fiction himself or was friends with someone who did. Not on top of everything else. "Um, fascinating as this discussion is, would you mind telling me about myself?" It was a clumsy way of putting it, but she hoped he would understand.

She was not disappointed. Professor Snape nodded. "It might be as well for me to do so." He gave an odd, coughing sort of laugh. "This is rather surreal. But never mind that; you need to know. So – you were Sorted into Gryffindor, which I am sure comes as no shock to you."

"No, not at all. It's what I'm used to; I'm not sure what I'd do if I were anywhere else." Hermione smiled a little sheepishly and confessed: "You know, I always wanted to be in Gryffindor, from the first moment I learned about the four Houses. I'd read all about the Headmaster by then, and I thought he was _wonderful_ – and then I found out that he'd been a Gryffindor. So, obviously, I had to be in that House too." A sudden thought struck her, and she said, "Professor Dumbledore _is_ the Headmaster, isn't he?"

"He is indeed – why wouldn't he be?"

"I don't know," Hermione said, testily. "But so many other things have changed now that I thought it might be better to check." A memory from the Sorting Feast drifted into her mind. "I wonder – does he have a blackened, shrivelled hand?"

The simple question seemed to thoroughly confound Snape. "Does he what? Why would you even–? No, don't answer that now." He shook his head vigorously. "I – no, the Headmaster was in perfect health, body and mind, when I saw him yesterday evening. Unless he has somehow managed to irreparably damage his flesh in the intervening hours, then no, he does not have a blackened hand."

"Oh, well, he did when _I_ last saw him." Hermione shrugged. "I don't have a clue how it happened; Professor Dumbledore wouldn't tell Harry about it when he asked."

"Well, the Headmaster at least sounds like exactly the same man," Snape said, dryly. "He hates to part with more information than he absolutely has to."

"Yeah, that's the impression I got from Harry about _our _Professor Dumbledore." Hermione realised that they had managed to stray rather a long way from the point, and tried to get the conversation back on track. "Anyway, if Harry and Ron aren't my friends now" – and didn't saying _that_ out loud hurt far more than she ever would have imagined? – "who do I spend my time with? _Is_ there anyone?" There was a certain amount of fear in her heart that, without the friendship of her two boys, she would have ended up quite alone.

Professor Snape smiled. Hermione had _nearly_ got used to seeing that. "Well, you spend most of your time with Lavender Brown, so–"

"_Lavender?_ Really?" Hermione couldn't help interrupting. She wasn't sure that she _could_ pretend to be the sort of person who was Lavender Brown's closest friend.

"Yes, really." Snape seemed amused by her consternation. "I have seen you studying together in the library countless times; you seem to share the same enthusiasm for learning, which is probably what makes you such good friends." Hermione was stunned. A _studious_ Lavender? This really _was_ a strange world. "Beyond that, I believe that you get along well with Neville Longbottom, and you've always seemed to be popular with the Ravenclaws – which doesn't surprise me all that much, since you are practically a Ravenclaw yourself."

"Yeah, I get that a lot." Hermione had never really liked such comments; she'd fought hard enough to prove that she belonged in Gryffindor. "Mostly by people who can't get their heads around the idea of a Gryffindor being intelligent or actually wanting to study." Her eyes held a challenging light as she looked steadily at Snape. Then she let out a deep breath, and said, carefully: "You know, I _am_ grateful that you've taken the time to talk to me about this, but – none of it feels real to me at all. As if... well, I could almost believe that if I fell asleep, when I woke up again everything would be back to normal."

"We could test that hypothesis," Snape said, reaching into the pocket of his robes and pulling out a potion vial. It contained a quarter dose of a pale blue liquid, which Hermione guessed was probably Easy Sleep or something similar. He saw her calculating look and smirked. "It makes perfect sense, if you think about it. Madam Pomfrey probably expects you to fall asleep at some point, and you really don't have anything to lose. If it doesn't work, you get some sleep and probably wake up feeling better. If it does, we can both just write this off as a psychotic episode of some kind and get on with our lives."

She snorted. "You make an excellent case, sir." Although she _knew_, somewhere deep down, that there was very little chance that just being knocked out again would be enough to set the world back to rights, she still felt a certain thrill at the thought of trying it. "Strange that you should just _happen_ to have a sleeping potion in your pocket, though." She raised an eyebrow at him, questioningly.

Snape's expression gave absolutely nothing away. "I had the vial in my office. It seemed as well to be prepared for any eventuality." He held out the vial. "Now, Miss Granger, this quantity of potion should be sufficient for two to three hours of sleep, which will take us to mid-afternoon – and if I know Madam Pomfrey at all, she ought to keep you from going to any afternoon classes you may have." Apparently Snape had no more faith in their experiment working than she did.

"Oh, God, and it's my first day of N.E.W.T. level lessons, too!" Hermione buried her head in her hands.

"Better to miss a few hours of class _now_ than nearer to the end of the year," Snape reminded her. He sounded as though he wanted to laugh, but was just managing to control himself.

"I suppose you're right," Hermione said, resignedly. "And at least I'll have more time to get myself sorted out – and check my class and homework schedules – before I have to _do_ anything."

"Exactly." Snape gave a thin smile. "Now, drink the potion and get some sleep. We will continue this discussion tomorrow evening in my office. If you don't turn up, I will assume that you woke up and found that it was all a dream, and I won't mention any of this again."

Hermione took the vial and drained its contents. The potion had a faint liquorice aftertaste. _Definitely one of the milder sleeping draughts, if it contains aniseed_. "I'll send you a note this evening if I'm still here," she said, lying down and settling herself in the bed. She could already feel the potion beginning to take effect; Professor Snape was still moving around the room, but just then he seemed very distant and unimportant. In fact, nothing seemed to matter, and it was all so very far away. Overcome by her sudden drowsiness, she closed her eyes, pulled the bedcovers up to cover her body, and let the world drift into darkness.

* * *

Her consciousness returned gradually, and she drifted into wakefulness as softly and easily as she had fallen asleep hours earlier. She didn't know exactly how much time had passed, but she could tell it was afternoon from the soft warmth of the sun across her face, making the world behind her eyelids glow red. No sooner had she realised that she was awake than she became aware that she was not alone in the room. She could hear someone nearby – they weren't as good as they thought they were at breathing quietly – but she had no great desire to find out who it was. If she stayed there with her eyes closed, she could pretend that it had worked, that everything was normal again. _Just let me pretend for a few minutes more, please._

Eventually, though, she summoned her Gryffindor courage – or else her curiosity won out – and she opened her eyes. She blinked sleepily against the sudden influx of light, wondering who she would see. Would it be Lavender? Or would it be... but no, she refused to allow herself to hope for that. Once she could keep her eyes open for longer than a few seconds at a time, she looked over at her visitor – and gasped. "Harry?" She stared. It really _was_ him, and when he heard her speak and saw she was awake, his face contained every emotion she could have wished to see earlier. This Harry _cared_ about her. "I – oh, God, I'm so glad to see you." Her voice came out as a hoarse whisper.

He smiled, broadly and completely unselfconsciously. "Hello, Hermione." He used her first name, just as _her_ Harry would, and she recognised the warmth in his voice. Could it be true? Had she really come home? Was her cruel nightmare really over?

But no sooner had such thoughts crossed her mind than she noticed something that brought them crashing to a halt. Harry shifted slightly in his chair, and the movement caused the badge on his robes to reflect the light from the window. She looked at it, took in the colour and the writing, and nearly groaned out loud. It wasn't over. Nothing had changed. The person sitting in the chair by her bed was none other than Harry Potter, Captain of the Slytherin Quidditch team.


	3. Lost or Treading Water

**Author's Note:** And now you get to find out what I meant by the timelines not matching exactly. Oh, and get a second impression of alternate Harry – hopefully a more pleasant one than the first. Parts of this chapter may be confusing, but all will become clear in time.

In writing news, Chapter 10 is complete. This update schedule is obviously more sensible than I feared.

* * *

**3\. Lost or Treading Water**

Hermione had known better than to allow herself to hope. She had _known_ that disappointment would shatter her. But knowing hadn't been enough to control her heart, and so she couldn't help but feel a little crushed by the sight of the obvious Slytherin emblem on Harry's robes. It wasn't fair; he looked so much like the boy she knew so well, having lost the tension and disdain his face had held earlier. But this _wasn't_ Harry, not really; it was a stranger who happened to wear the same face. A stranger who, while he smiled at her _now_, had seemed to loathe her very existence when they had last spoken. If not for Ron's intervention then, he would have been cruel to her – so why was he here now?

Stung by the unpleasant memory, she spoke rather more sharply than she'd originally intended. "Oh, so it's _Hermione_ now, is it?" She pushed the blankets back far enough that she could sit up, and propped her back against the headboard of the bed for support.

Harry let out a long sigh that gave her the impression that she'd unwittingly touched on an old argument. "Ron was with us earlier. You _know_ that I have to keep up appearances in front of the other Slytherins." He put out his hand and gently squeezed her arm where it lay atop the covers. "Believe me, Hermione, I'd rather it didn't have to be this way, too."

In a slightly petulant tone, Hermione said, "You Slytherins and your games." Oh, she understood now, but that didn't mean she liked it: obviously whatever relationship they had was a sort of shameful secret to this Slytherin Harry.

Annoyed, Harry snapped back: "I'm not playing a game here, Hermione! I'm keeping us both safe." He scowled, darkly. "You don't have a clue what Slytherin is really like. It's... well, nothing is simple for us. And it's been getting worse, lately. There's talk in the Common Room; the whispers are getting louder. Something is going to happen soon, but I don't know what, and no one will tell me."

For the first time since she'd ended up sprawled on the floor of Professor Snape's Defence classroom, Hermione considered the issue of Voldemort. Why hadn't she asked about _him_ when she'd had the chance, rather than fretting about her friends and Professor Dumbledore's hand? Surely knowing if a terrible Dark wizard was alive or dead – or somewhere in between – was more important? It was too late to worry about that now, though, and perhaps if she was clever about it she'd be able to get at least the basic information out of Harry. Everyone would have to be aware of the truth if Voldemort had officially risen again.

"I hope they don't distrust you on my account," she said, hesitantly, though she imagined that the true reason was related to the scar on Harry's forehead, obvious evidence of the Dark Lord's hatred.

He shrugged, affecting a nonchalant air. "Nah, don't blame yourself. I'm a Muggle-raised half-blood in Slytherin. It is what it is."

Something in his voice and his eyes made her shiver. "Don't say that. I hate to hear you talk like you've _swallowed_ all that Slytherin crap."

Harry snorted. "I _am_ a Slytherin," he said, as if there was any chance that she might have forgotten.

"Yeah, well, I hate that too!" Hermione knew that she sounded childish, but she wasn't particularly inclined to care. There was only so much more of this that she could take. Of everything in this strangely wrong world, not just Harry.

He didn't laugh at her, or seem embarrassed – or even particularly surprised – by her outburst. "I know," he said, simply. Perhaps this was a conversation they'd had many times before. "Sometimes even _I_ don't like it that much, you know. There are moments when I wish I'd let the Sorting Hat put me in Gryffindor instead." He gave her a wan, slightly crooked smile, but Hermione could do little other than stare at him. That was not something she had expected to hear from this Harry; perhaps he was not so very different to the boy she knew, after all.

"It wanted to put you in Gryffindor?" she asked, in a hushed voice.

"I – have I never told you this before? Strange, you'd think I would have." Harry didn't seem suspicious, only puzzled. "Oh, well; I don't know whether the Hat really _would_ have put me in Gryffindor or not. It said I would have fitted very well there, but that was only after I asked _not_ to go there. No offence, but – I've never really had a very high opinion of most of the Gryffindor virtues. What good did courage or honour ever do either of my parents?" There was a certain degree of bitterness in his tone, and while Hermione would have liked to remonstrate with him, the fact remained that both of _her_ parents were alive, and she could have no real understanding of his pain.

"I can see why you might feel that way," she said, thinking of what little Harry had told her of his home life. It was certainly not particularly surprising that his upbringing might have produced a boy like the one who sat before her now. In fact, she was rather more surprised that her _own_ Harry had existed – if indeed he ever had.

"You're so understanding, aren't you, Hermione?" He smiled again, and this time it seemed warmer and more genuine. "Maybe I shouldn't have let my... well, my anger bias me against Gryffindor. You and I would have been much better friends, then, I'm sure." Harry sighed heavily. "Still, it can't be helped now, and I have to navigate the minefield of Slytherin life as well as I can."

"We're good friends," Hermione said, automatically, although she wasn't entirely sure that it was true. "Even if we can't tell anybody." She comforted herself with the thought that she _must _be right; would Harry really have poured so much of his heart out to someone who was not close to him? Especially not a _Slytherin_ version of Harry, who she'd have expected to be far more guarded in his emotions. "You do have friends in your own House, though. If you'd been Sorted into Gryffindor, you wouldn't have _them_, so... I don't know. Maybe even Slytherin has its advantages."

Harry laughed. "You always try to be so fair and unbiased, don't you?" Then he sobered. "Really, the only one of them I count as an actual _friend_ is Ron, and I have to be careful even around him. I – well, you saw how I behaved earlier. I _am_ sorry, by the way. There was no helping it, though; Ron's father was a Muggle-obsessed blood traitor, so he has to be even more vocal about hating Muggles and Mud– um, Muggle-borns than the average Slytherin, to make up for it. That's just the way it works."

Hermione's mind was a whirl of confusion. Harry had spoken of Mr. Weasley in the past tense – did that mean that he was _dead?_ She'd found the man irritating and rather patronising with his continual questions about the 'funny ways' that Muggles managed without magic, but despite all of that she _had_ liked him. He had been too nice for her to hold his near-offensive curiosity against him. But now – now he was either dead or gone, and Ron felt forced to _compensate_ for what he had been. And, if she was not mistaken, Harry had only just managed to keep himself from using a blood purist's slur in her presence. This world was _wrong_. Terribly wrong. She _had_ to find a way home, or it would kill her.

"Ron isn't that awful," she said, haltingly. "He told _you_ off earlier."

"Oh, yeah, he's a good guy at heart," Harry said, with every appearance of great relief. "I was the one behaving badly, so he got to be the decent one that time. That's partly why I did it – that and I wanted to keep up the illusion of distance, so no one suspects that we're friends." He sighed. "I did feel bad about it, though. Like I'd gone too far. You looked at me like... like you didn't understand, like you thought I actually meant it. But surely – surely you know better than that? Right?"

There was an almost desperate need for her approval there, just barely hidden beneath the surface, and Hermione wondered how this boy had ever survived in Slytherin. Perhaps that was why he needed his Gryffindor friend, however secret he had to keep her. She felt rather guilty to think that her reactions earlier had affected him so, even though there was no way that she could've known any better. But if she were really this world's Hermione, Harry's secret friend, she ought to have done – and there was no way that she could see to explain that she was not. If Professor Snape had not seen the truth in her mind, she doubted that she would have been able to talk to him about it.

"I – well, yeah, of course. I was just... confused and not really thinking straight," Hermione said, quickly, hoping that the explanation would satisfy him. "I suppose I should've realised that you couldn't show any concern in front of R– um, Weasley, but I think I hit my head and everything got all jumbled up inside." Her cheeks felt hot. "I'm sorry; I didn't mean to worry you or act inappropriately."

"You didn't do or say anything wrong, and I doubt Ron noticed a thing," Harry said, in a much more cheerful voice. "I had a few bad moments, but I daresay I deserved them." He leant forwards, closing the distance between them a little. "I am such an awful friend; I came here to ask if you were feeling better, and I haven't done it yet. So, Hermione, how are you? Is your head still bothering you?"

_More than you can possibly imagine_. "I've slept a little, and I feel almost normal now." Hermione tried to keep control over her tone and make her words sound convincing. "Madam Pomfrey seems to think that there's nothing really wrong with me, so I'm not really that worried, though I wish I knew _why_ I collapsed like that."

"I was so scared when it happened," Harry murmured, almost as though he were embarrassed to admit to having such feelings. "I couldn't do or say a thing about it, because Ron was right there with me, and I _knew_ he'd notice if I seemed more than just shocked or startled." He pulled a face. "And then Snape sent _both_ of us with you, so I couldn't show any sort of emotion or even be _nice_ to you. It was almost like he'd done it on purpose, which I wouldn't put past him. He doesn't like me, even if he _is_ my Head of House."

So that was a constant as well, Professor Snape disliking Harry. And... Hermione suddenly wondered – _had_ he sent Ron and Harry to the hospital wing with her on purpose? It did seem like a very odd coincidence that he should ask her two best friends from her _other_ life to accompany her. She'd have to ask him tomorrow evening. "I'm sure Professor Snape doesn't know that we're friends," she told him – and indeed, she was very confident that this was the case.

"Oh, yeah, he'd have warned you to stay away from me by now, if he did," Harry said, with a wry smile. Hermione didn't think that was entirely accurate, but she did have to admit that Snape would have at least mentioned their friendship if he'd known of it.

"Yes, because of course _Professor Snape _wouldn't want to me to expose myself to the horrors of a Slytherin's company," Hermione teased. For a moment she thought that she'd offended Harry, but then his vibrant green eyes flashed with amusement, and she relaxed. Then a thought occurred to her. "Shouldn't you be in class or something right now, Harry?"

He shook his head, still looking amused. "No, I'm free right now – Ron has Care of Magical Creatures, so it was easy enough for me to slip away unnoticed to see you. I had to make sure you were alright, especially after how I spoke to you earlier." He looked a little shamefaced, but did not apologise again. "Since you're so concerned with my academic progress, you must be back to normal, though," he added, brightly. She laughed, all the while feeling uncomfortable – and a little ashamed – about how easily she had managed to deceive him. After a moment of uneasy silence, Harry spoke: "You should be glad that there's nothing wrong with you; an illness would stop you from entering the Tournament – which of course you _must_, since you'll be seventeen by then."

Hermione was surprised, both by the abrupt subject change and by the words themselves. _The Tournament?_ What could he mean? She could only think of one thing – but surely that had taken place two years ago? It couldn't be due to happen again, could it? And yet what else could he mean, especially with his emphasis on her coming of age? "You – what, the Triwizard Tournament?" she asked, hesitantly, wondering what he would think of her, how suspicious he might be, if she were wrong. Though perhaps she could blame it on her supposed head injury again?

As it turned out, there was no need for her to worry – or, at least, not about that. "Yes, of course." Harry grinned. "Don't tell me you'd managed to forget about it, Hermione! I'm counting on you to enter, you know. I won't be of age until July, which will be too late – but _your_ birthday is in a couple of weeks, so you'll be eligible. And when you're chosen – which you must be; you're too brilliant not to be – I'll be able to cheer for you and no one will find it the least bit strange, since you'll be the school champion."

She wasn't sure how to deal with this, either the information or Harry's sudden enthusiasm. "You've got it all planned out for me, have you?" Her voice sounded weak and almost frightened, even to her own ears. _How can this be? Why is this happening __now__, when it should have been in fourth year?_ "Much as I appreciate the compliment, I can't see it as a foregone conclusion that I'd be chosen, even if I _did_ put... um, put my name forward." At the last moment, she remembered not to mention the Goblet of Fire; no one at Hogwarts would know yet how the champions were chosen – it was such a closely guarded secret that none of the history books she'd read had made any reference to it.

"Oh, you have to enter," Harry said, confidently. "Why wouldn't you? I'm not even a Gryffindor, and _I'd_ enter if I were allowed to."

Hermione thought of what she knew to have happened in her own personal timeline, of the clever and not-so-clever attempts by underage students to get their names into the competition. She smiled. "You're a Slytherin; aren't you going to look for a loophole so you can enter anyway?"

"Maybe I will – if that'll make _you_ go for it." The mischievous look on his face made him look _so much_ like the other Harry that it took her breath away. Then he shrugged and his expression was suddenly much more closed off. "I suppose it depends how easily hoodwinked the 'impartial judge' turns out to be." Hermione reflected that the Goblet had been tricked into thinking there were four schools in the Tournament before, but she had no idea how easy that had been for the younger Crouch. And _that_ thought suddenly gave her pause – if there had been no Triwizard Tournament in fourth year, did that mean that Voldemort had _not_ yet returned? She wanted to know, but there was no easy way to ask.

"I – well, I hadn't really thought about entering," she said, honestly enough. She hadn't even known it was an option. And now she did, it wasn't really that appealing; watching Harry complete the tasks had been quite nerve-wracking enough. "I mean, I'm not the most practical of witches; I'm good at learning things from books, but I don't know how well I'd manage in a competition that's _killed_ people in the past." She was thinking of Cedric Diggory particularly, but it was well known that the Triwizard Tournament had been banned in the first place because of the death toll.

"Oh, they say it'll be much safer now – and besides, you really are a lot better than you think you are." Harry's eyes glowed with sincerity, and Hermione felt genuinely touched. She couldn't remember either of her boys talking to her like this before, like they truly respected and appreciated her. _Though if he did, would he keep you a secret?_ The treacherous voice in the back of her mind was drowned out by Harry saying: "Anyway – just put your name forward; if you get picked then you'll know you _are_ worthy, and you won't be able to claim otherwise anymore."

She laughed. "Okay, I will, since you clearly won't take no for an answer."

It was at this point that Madam Pomfrey emerged from her office and interrupted their conversation. "Mr. Potter! Are you harassing my patient?"

Harry adopted a very innocent-looking expression. "Not at all, ma'am. I thought that Granger might appreciate the notes from our Potions class, that's all." He winked at her, and then reached into his bag, pulling out a roll of parchment tied with a green ribbon. "Here," he said, in a bored voice. "I was happy you weren't there; I mightn't have won Slughorn's challenge if you had been." A tiny vial was suddenly in his hand, golden liquid sealed in with wax. Hermione stared at it, wide-eyed. "Do you know what this is?" Harry asked, waving it in front of her face.

Of course she knew. "Felix Felicis," she breathed, watching the light filter sluggishly through the brilliant gold potion. "Liquid luck."

"You always know everything," he said, grudgingly, though there was a spark in his eye that showed his moodiness was an act for Madam Pomfrey's benefit. "But yeah, this is mine, though I've already been warned not to use it for competitions or exams. As if I really need to cheat!"

"It might be tempting," Hermione said, still spellbound by the thought of what the lucky potion could do. Would it be able to help her get home somehow? But even if it could, it was _Harry's _property now, and she would never be able to use it for any purpose without explaining exactly what she wanted it for. Something told her that wouldn't be a very good idea. Perhaps once she'd exhausted every other avenue of research, she might consider it.

"I suppose it might be, if I had got hold of the stuff secretly. Since everyone knows I have it, I really ought to be careful." Harry cast an irritated look at Madam Pomfrey, who was still watching him, and stood up to go. "Oh well, I told Ron I was going to write a letter to my mother during my free period, so I suppose I had better go do that now."

"I – okay. See you later, and thanks for the notes." Hermione let polite phrases fall automatically from her lips and tried not to show her bewilderment. Harry was writing to his mother? But surely... his mother was _dead. _That was how he had got that famous scar – because of her great love, because she had died for him. So how could he send her an owl? And if she somehow _wasn't_ dead, where had the scar come from? Not to mention – if Harry had been raised by his loving Muggle-born mother, why was he a Slytherin? It made no sense. There had to be something else going on here.

Harry was completely obvious to the thoughts in her head. "Don't mention it," he said, in a tight voice that told her he meant it literally. Then he gave her a brief nod – and a brilliant smile that Madam Pomfrey couldn't see – and left the infirmary.

"That boy," the nurse said, shaking her head – though since she didn't finish her sentence, Hermione had no idea what exactly was supposed to be wrong with him.

"It was nice of him to bring me the notes." She didn't dare defend Harry too strongly; it wouldn't do for Madam Pomfrey – or anyone – to become suspicious. Of what, she had no idea.

"Yes, I suppose so, dear." The mediwitch didn't sound very convinced. "Now, how are you feeling? Hopefully the dizziness is gone? I know you had a little sleep, which can only have done you good."

"I think I do feel better," Hermione said. She swung her legs over the edge of the bed and sat up straighter. When this didn't make her feel dizzy, she tried standing up, with similar results. "See, I'm fine now, Madam Pomfrey. I feel pretty much normal, actually."

"Well then, dear, as soon as you've drunk some broth, I'll let you go. You missed lunch while you were asleep, and the last thing we want is for you to get weak again." The nurse didn't wait to hear any arguments, and disappeared to fetch a bowl of hot soup. Not that Hermione would have objected if she _had_ been given the opportunity; she was really rather hungry, and even watery sickroom chicken broth would be better than nothing.

While Madam Pomfrey was out of the room, she looked around, found her robes in a heap on the floor – she had definitely been out of it earlier – and put them on. They were creased and not very clean, but they'd do for getting back to the common room. It wasn't as if she had to go to a dance in them. _A dance?_ Well, that made her think. If the Triwizard Tournament was somehow, inexplicably, _this_ year instead of fourth, she would have to live through the horror of the Yule Ball again. Maybe she could just _not go_ this time. Or – well, hopefully, she would have found a way back home by then, and it would no longer matter.

At this point Madam Pomfrey appeared in front of her with the soup, so she put all of the silly, fretful thoughts out of her head and concentrated on eating.

A short while later, Hermione left the hospital wing to return to Gryffindor Tower. The halls were unusually quiet; the last lesson of the day was well underway, and the students were almost all either in class or their House common rooms. Her footsteps sounded unnaturally loud in the empty corridors and staircases that she walked through on the way to the seventh floor. There was no one around to watch her, so she walked as fast as her legs would allow – irrational it might be, but she knew she would only feel calm once in the familiar surroundings of the Gryffindor common room.

When she reached the portrait of the Fat Lady, though, she suddenly realised that all of her haste had been in vain, for one very simple reason: _she didn't know what the password was._ Trying the phrase she had used the night before ended in failure, and she knew from experience that there was no point in guessing. Gryffindor Tower had never had a pattern in its passwords; it was left up to the whim of the portrait guardian, who might have chosen absolutely anything. Hermione sighed; there was nothing for it but to wait outside for someone to go in or out. She sat down with her back against the wall, cradled her schoolbag in her lap, and waited.

It took about ten minutes – though it felt _much_ longer – before she finally heard the portrait hole open, followed by the sound of someone climbing out. An almost familiar voice said: "Strange place to take a nap, Granger." Male, tenor register, warm tone, gently teasing – she _knew_ that voice, but somehow she just couldn't place it. She looked up and saw Draco Malfoy standing just outside the still-open portrait hole, one hand on the Fat Lady's frame. He was smiling in a way that made his face almost unrecognisable, and there was a red and gold badge pinned to the outside of his robes.

Somehow she wasn't even that surprised. After all, what could balance out Harry Potter, Slytherin Quidditch Captain, other than Draco Malfoy, Gryffindor Prefect?

"I wasn't having a _nap_, Malfoy." She scowled at him. He might be a different person, but she still had to fight the urge to slap him. It was just as well that he was being somewhat annoying, or she might have felt more guilty about it. "I forgot the password," she admitted, reluctantly, after enduring Malfoy's amused curiosity for several excruciating seconds. She was almost certain she was blushing.

"_You_ did? Really? You sure you're Granger, and not a Hufflepuff under Polyjuice?" Malfoy's words cut rather closer to the bone than he'd probably intended, and Hermione flinched. No, she wasn't the Granger he knew, any more than he was the Malfoy she had known – and for the first time she wondered what had happened to that other Hermione. _Did we switch somehow? Or did I... kill her?_

The fear engendered by that thought made her tongue sharper than usual. "I _hit my head_, Malfoy," she snapped. "I don't remember most of what I did this morning, either, and it's actually really worrying me, thanks so much for reminding me!"

"Shit." Malfoy's grin collapsed into a dejected grimace. "I forgot that you'd passed out in Defence. I'm sorry, Granger; I'm the worst kind of tosser, apparently."

She stared at him. His apology had rather taken the wind out of her metaphorical sails. "You're alright, Malfoy," she said, weakly. "As long as you tell me the password, that is."

He snorted. "Oh, well, since you put it that way, it's _Dies Irae_. You have to wonder what our dear Lady was thinking, really, don't you?"

"Right now she's wondering if you're going to keep the portrait hole open until dinner." The Fat Lady's snide comment cut across their conversation, and both Gryffindors burst into giggles.

Hermione regained her composure first, thinking about the significance of the password. _Dies Irae_ – the day of wrath, the day of doom. It was unsettling, particularly considering the day _she'd_ had. She shook her head and tried to distract herself by looking at Malfoy and silently cataloguing the differences between this version and the cruel boy who had injured Harry just the day before. He had an air of easy confidence that revealed quite starkly how much of the Slytherin Malfoy's arrogance had been nothing but insecure posturing. More surprisingly, in the absence of his usual haughty sneer, there was something almost attractive about his face. He didn't look like a pinched albino ferret, that much was for certain.

Her appraising eyes paused on the red and gold badge pinned to the front of his robes, bearing a letter P superimposed over the Gryffindor lion. Without stopping to consider the wisdom of asking the question, Hermione opened her mouth. "Malfoy – I don't think I ever asked... but what did your dad think about...?" She didn't finish the sentence, just waved her hand towards the badge. The idea of a Lucius Malfoy who could even _tolerate_ his son being in Gryffindor was simply too ridiculous for words, and yet for his sake she hoped that it was so.

"Oh, well, he _said_ that he was disappointed – very disappointed indeed." Malfoy's grey eyes glittered. "But, you know, he _did_ take me out for a nice dinner to celebrate, so I think he was pleased about it, really. In the end, he might claim to be put out about me not being much of a troublemaker, but I don't think any parent really wants to get loads of letters home about their son's behaviour." He raised an eyebrow. "So, were _your _parents proud when you were made Prefect, Granger?"

He'd misunderstood her, which she supposed she really ought to have expected. While to her the badge symbolised his House affiliation – the only obvious thing that did – to this Malfoy, who had been in Gryffindor all along, it just denoted his position of responsibility. She couldn't blame him for not getting her meaning. "Yes, they were really happy. I think they were relieved to find something about my magical school that they could understand – and, yeah, be proud of." She smiled at Malfoy, and he smiled back. Emboldened, she said, "Actually, though, I meant to ask what he thought about you being in Gryffindor."

"Oh." Malfoy's eyes narrowed slightly, his brows drawing down in confusion. "Well, I _think_ he was pleased, you know? I mean, he said before I started that it didn't matter what House I ended up in, but I think Gryffindor was really what he wanted all along." Hermione tried to keep her expression neutral. _This is the Looking-Glass world, all right._ At this point, Malfoy released his grip on the portrait – which swung shut with a muffled _"Finally!"_ – and stepped away from it. He sighed. "I should probably be going if I don't want to be late. I've been summoned by Severus."

"Professor Snape." Hermione corrected him without thinking about it, being far too used to her boys' casual disrespect of the Head of Slytherin.

Malfoy laughed. "Okay, you're definitely Granger," he said – and although he was laughing at her, it felt more affectionate than cruel. "But yeah, I have to go. You _know_ what he's like about punctuality. I'll see you later." Without waiting for a reply, he nodded to her and all but ran down the corridor towards the staircase.

Hermione watched him until he was out of sight, and then shook her head. That had probably been the strangest conversation she'd had all day, however mundane it would have seemed to an eavesdropper. She'd been talking to a Gryffindor Malfoy. Five years ago, Draco Malfoy had been Sorted into _Gryffindor_. How had that not ushered in the Apocalypse? Snickering quietly to herself, she struggled to her feet and dusted off her robes, before giving the password to the Fat Lady and entering Gryffindor Tower.


	4. Things That Could've Been

**Author's Note:** And now we meet Lavender, Hermione's best friend. I didn't like what Rowling did with Lavender in HBP, but _this_ girl is – like almost everything in this world – more than a little different to her canon counterpart. But then, we already knew that. ("Blue-stocking", for those who don't know, is a mildly derogatory term for an intellectual woman. One assumes that Lavender is re-appropriating the insult.)

Chapter 11 is finished and Chapter 12 is in progress, so the 2 week update schedule will continue. Chapter 5 will appear on 20th June.

* * *

**4\. Things That Could've Been**

Hermione had barely spent five minutes alone in the Gryffindor common room before the portrait hole opened and a number of students poured in – among them Lavender Brown, back from her last class of the day. The sight of her made Hermione's chest tighten with anxiety; she had managed to fool Harry and Malfoy pretty well, but Lavender was apparently her best friend. How was she supposed to get through this conversation without the truth coming out? She had very little time to worry about it, though, because Lavender spotted her almost immediately and bore down on her with the same indefatigable enthusiasm she had always brought to everything.

"Hermione! You're okay!" The grin that accompanied this declaration was equal parts joy and relief – and it hit Hermione like a punch to the gut. If she only knew! Lavender dropped her schoolbag on the floor and flopped down into the chair next to Hermione's, still chattering away. "I was actually just about to go to the hospital wing to check on you, as soon as I'd dropped off all my books – but you're here! When I went in at lunchtime you were sleeping – just so you don't think I _left _you there or anything." Lavender smiled warmly, and Hermione, who had never really liked the other girl that much, nevertheless felt a sudden rush of affection for her.

"Yeah, I'm okay. Madam Pomfrey said I was just dehydrated or over-tired, or else I haven't been eating enough lately. There's nothing seriously wrong with me, anyway." Hermione wondered how much she would share with a female friend; aside from Ginny Weasley – who was more Ron's sister than she was an actual friend to Hermione or Harry – she had never really had one. _Did_ girls tell each other everything? Perhaps they were supposed to, because the temptation to do so was strong. And... well, she supposed that, while she had Lavender, she might as well make the most of her. Hermione lowered her voice slightly and leaned closer. "She tested to see if I was _pregnant_, would you believe?"

Lavender giggled, which reassured Hermione somewhat. "That's just silly! Even if you _did_ do something with a boy, I can't imagine you forgetting to take the necessary precautions." Hearing this came as something of a relief. At least it would appear that _she_ was not so very different in this world – even if practically everyone else seemed to have been reflected through a fractured mirror.

"That was what I wanted to say, but I doubt Madam Pomfrey would've taken any notice." Hermione smiled, though she _was_ still a little chagrined at the indignity of being subjected to such a test.

"She's probably heard it all before," Lavender said, sensibly.

"I suppose she has," Hermione conceded, with a small sigh. "It was kind of funny, anyway."

"Did you find it funny at the time?" Lavender asked, with unexpected shrewdness. Hermione stared at her in surprise, and she laughed. "I don't suppose you did – but never mind _that_ now. At least there's nothing wrong with you, _including_ that." Lavender's bright tone didn't grate on Hermione as much as it usually would, though the assertion that there was nothing wrong made her want to laugh. Or cry. "Oh, by the way, Professor Lupin asked after you just now. I think he was worried when you didn't show up in his class – though I don't know if he'd heard that you were ill, or if he was just afraid that you weren't taking History this year after all."

_Professor __Lupin__?_ Hermione had taken a brief look at her class schedule before Lavender arrived, and she'd noticed that it contained History of Magic rather than Herbology, but she hadn't realised quite what that substitution implied. She'd always loved history, from a very early age – but even she, with her deeply ingrained respect for authority figures, had to admit that no one had ever learned anything at all from Professor Binns' lessons. If she'd had time to think about it, she would probably have deduced that, in order for her to consider taking the subject at N.E.W.T. level, it must have a better teacher – but even if she _had_, she would never have guessed that it might be Remus Lupin.

"It's only the first day of lessons, and I've already managed to scare two of the teachers," she said, dryly. Lavender snorted. Looking at the other girl's bag – bulging and heavy with books in much the same way as her own – Hermione felt a certain amount of guilt and worry about missing the day's lessons. Professor Snape had probably been right to advise her to take the time off, but that didn't mean she had to like it. "Did I miss very much work?" she asked, nervously.

"Not _that_ much, really – I have all the notes and homework questions here. You can copy them down and ask me to explain anything you don't get straight away." The idea that _Lavender_ could explain anything school-related to _her_ would've made Hermione laugh, but then she remembered that they were supposed to be best friends and study partners, so it likely wasn't that unusual. "It's a lot of work for the first day back, but it's the start of our N.E.W.T.s so it'll probably get much harder than this." Lavender grinned ruefully and said, "Oh well, we _did_ choose to take seven subjects."

"We can handle it," Hermione said, firmly, though she felt less sure than she sounded. She thought back to Harry's visit to the hospital wing, and wondered how on earth he expected her to enter the Triwizard Tournament when she would have so much work to do. Apparently it would take more than the world flipping on its axis to make Harry care about doing well on exams.

"Oh, of course we can," Lavender said, cheerfully, handing her a roll of parchment that turned out to contain notes from the History of Magic lesson. "I'm sure McGonagall would've done more than roll her eyes at me if she thought we couldn't."

Hermione looked up from her perusal of the neatly written notes. "She can't have been _surprised_."

"I think she was more resigned than anything else." Lavender smirked. "I mean, what else could she expect from the Gryffindor blue-stockings? Really, she ought to have been surprised that we weren't trying to do _eight_ subjects each."

"I don't think I'd want to," Hermione said, with a shudder, remembering her doomed attempt to take thirteen subjects in her third year. Apparently that hadn't happened in this world, though, since Professor Snape had not known that she had experience with bending the rules of time. "Can you imagine what that would be like?"

"I'm sure it would've been torture and we'd have regretted it." Lavender laughed. "Once upon a time, though, we'd have been foolish enough to try, wouldn't we?"

"Oh, I'm sure we would," Hermione said, grimly, fumbling in her bag for quill, ink and parchment. She organised herself at the nearby table and began to copy the notes down, noticing immediately that the topic – the history of magical beast hunting – seemed to have been explained far better than anything in Binns' rambling lectures. Part of her wished she could tell Professor Lupin of her predicament, so that she could ask to read his notes for the younger students. Fascinating as goblin rebellions might be the _first_ dozen times you heard about one, even Hermione had grown very tired of them by the time she'd sat her O.W.L. Now she came to think of it, she couldn't understand why Binns hadn't been replaced in her own timeline. Did _anybody_ do N.E.W.T. level History?

Unlike Harry and Ron, Lavender seemed to understand how to study, striking just the right balance between conversation and silence. It was so refreshing to have a like-minded study partner – someone who was knowledgeable enough for quiet discussions of the material, but also disciplined enough to stay silent when she needed to concentrate – that Hermione quite forgot to miss her friends. That only lasted until she had finished copying the History of Magic notes, whereupon she realised that it was already twenty minutes into the dinner hour. Ron would never have let her lose track of time like that.

"We'd better go down to the Great Hall," Hermione said, rolling up both sets of notes and handing the original back to Lavender. "I won't hear the end of it if I miss dinner and Madam Pomfrey finds out."

"Oh no, is it that late?" Lavender seemed rather flustered. "Just one more translation for Runes?" Hermione looked at the other girl, wondering what lay behind her drastically improved attitude to her studies, compared to the Lavender Brown she had known. Could it really be as simple as having become best friends with Hermione rather than Parvati? Had Lavender _always_ had this potential, but in the other world chosen not to use it? That seemed practically criminal to Hermione.

Then again, having had two boys as her best friends since before puberty, so did the idea of missing dinner. "We can do Runes together when we get back," she said, firmly. "I'm starving, Lavender."

"Right, sorry; I should've thought." Lavender gave her a tight smile and dropped her Ancient Runes textbook back into her bag, which she then nudged under their table. "Okay, I'm ready to go – let's see what the gannets have left for us."

The two girls left the common room and headed down the many flights of stairs towards the great hall. It being the middle of dinner, the corridors were just as quiet as they had been earlier – but now that she was no longer alone, Hermione did not feel the same discomfort and unease. Walking side by side through the school with another girl was not something she had done very often before, and she was surprised by how natural and familiar Lavender's presence felt. Perhaps it was just that she was well used to the company of good friends, even though that had meant something very different to her before today.

There were still a lot of people in the Great Hall when they arrived; dinner might be well underway, but it was by no means over yet. Hermione crossed the room towards the farthest table, glad that she at least was still a Gryffindor. She wasn't quite sure which of the other tables was which, off the top of her head. Except for the Slytherin table – she knew _that_ one well enough, and it was hard to pretend that it didn't break her heart to see Harry and Ron sitting there, quite the same as ever, right down to their abysmal table manners. _Don't look_, she told herself, but it was far easier said than done. Harry noticed the direction of her gaze and gave her the smallest of smiles – but somehow that only made it _worse_.

Taking a deep breath, she returned the smile, and then managed to tear her eyes away and continue on to her own table. Remembering what Professor Snape had told her earlier, she flopped down into the seat next to Neville Longbottom, who gave her a polite nod – his mouth was too full to say anything – and passed the dish of potatoes. "Oh, thanks," she said, politely, relieved that she had apparently done the right thing by sitting there. She was also suddenly very glad she hadn't missed dinner; there was a plate of very nicely prepared salmon a little further down the table. Leaning over Neville, she asked the person next to him to grab it for her.

"Here, Granger." Of _course_ it was Malfoy. "Glad to see you could make it for dinner." He was teasing her, she could tell, but it was too good-natured for her to take all that much offence. He put the serving plate down next to her, and then forked a small mountain of his own food into his mouth. After a moment or two spent chewing, he said, "The lamb hotpot's good tonight."

"Oh. Um, that's nice." She knew she sounded stupid – but it was just so surreal, to be making small talk over dinner with Draco Malfoy. At the Gryffindor table! Hermione realised that she probably ought to make a bit more effort with it, though, or someone might notice that she was not quite herself, so to speak. "I think I'll stick with the salmon, thanks, Malfoy."

"Suit yourself," he said, with a smile, turning back to his interrupted conversation with Seamus Finnigan.

Hermione shrugged and looked over at Lavender, who was tucking into some sort of meat pie. This reminded her that she'd yet to take a bite of her dinner, so she quickly remedied that and began to eat. It tasted as delicious as it had looked – and she was rather surprised by how hungry she was. _I really didn't eat properly today._

As if picking up on that thought, Neville paused in his selection of a pudding to ask, "Are you feeling better now, Hermione? I... well, we were all pretty worried after what happened in Defence." Neville seemed like much the same person; perhaps he was a little more confident, but otherwise not really that different.

She swallowed her mouthful of potato and smiled at him. "Thanks, but Madam Pomfrey said there was nothing much wrong with me. Maybe I overdid it a bit during the holidays, but that's all."

"I could believe that," Neville said, with the hint of a grin. "Still, it was kind of scary when you just _fell_ like that, and I'm glad you're alright."

"Thanks, Neville." A warm glow of contentment spread through her as she sat there, which was just about the last thing she'd expected. Nothing was quite right – but that didn't mean that every change was for the worse. She might not have Harry and Ron, but she _did_ feel more like part of the House than she had ever done before. Apparently that friendship, strong as it was, had served to isolate her from almost everyone else. Hermione scowled at her plate. She didn't want to think ill of her best friends. It didn't _matter_ if there were good things about the world as it was; she wanted to go _home_.

By the time Hermione and Lavender had finished eating, the Great Hall was all but empty. The other students had gone back to their common rooms – perhaps to better resist the temptation of extra Hogwarts desserts – but when the two girls finally rose from their late meal, Hermione remembered something. "Go on ahead of me, Lavender, I just have to make a quick stop off at the Owlery."

"I could come with you," Lavender suggested, frowning and looking at her with puzzled eyes. Hermione almost never went to the Owlery.

Taking Lavender with her didn't suit her plan at all, though; she wanted to send a message to Professor Snape, and she didn't want anyone to know what she was doing. Still, if she seemed overly panicked by the idea of company, that would be suspicious – and she didn't want _that_, either. With luck, Snape would be able to find her a way home soon, and Lavender would never be any the wiser. "Well, if you want to," she said, with a quick smile. "Though – oh, dear. I think I left my History of Magic textbook out on the table in the common room." The distress in her voice was genuine; she was usually much more careful with her books. "I don't suppose you'd mind checking for me?"

Lavender looked startled. "Of course I don't mind," she said. "I'm sure it'll be alright, but I'll make sure of it. You want me to grab our Runes books and meet you in the library?"

"Okay, sure, I'll see you there!" Hermione had to restrain herself from grinning like a crazy person as she shot off towards the Owlery. She had always wanted to have a friend who didn't have to be forced into going to the library. And now she did! Even reminding herself that this would be – could only be – temporary didn't ruin the feeling entirely. It would be nice while it lasted, and she fully intended to spend as much time as possible enjoying it.

But first, she had a letter to send. She climbed the stone spiral staircase of the West Tower, and soon found herself in the Owlery, surrounded by a bewildering array of owls in different sizes and colours. Uneasily aware of the many pairs of sharp yellow eyes watching her, she crossed to the window and drew out a piece of spare parchment and an Always-Inked Quill. Hermione was never without these necessities – you never knew when you might need to take notes on something – and she was glad to find that this was yet another thing that was the same about _this_ version of her.

Flattening out the parchment on the stone window ledge, she wrote:

_Professor Snape,_

_Nothing has changed since our conversation this morning.__ As such, if you are agreeable, I will come to your office tomorrow evening at 7pm to discuss matters further._

_Yours,_

_H.G._

Once she was finished, she looked around for an owl to carry the note. She didn't own one, and nor did she particularly want to. There was no real need for a Muggle-born to have an owl, and she didn't really like birds anyway; the arrival of the post at breakfast had fairly terrified her for her first few weeks at Hogwarts. Still, she would need an owl for this. As she stood looking up at the mismatched flock in the rafters, one of them seemed to take pity on her and swooped down to land on the window ledge in front of her. It stretched out a leg expectantly.

Wondering if perhaps the birds could read minds, she tied the short note onto the proffered limb and told the owl to take the message to Professor Snape. It soared away into the dimming light of evening, intent on its mission.

The next morning, Hermione found a response sitting on her nightstand, with no indication of how it had come to be there.

_Miss Granger,_

_I am never agreeable, but I shall expect you at seven regardless._

_S.S._

She stared at the note and couldn't help but let out a small snort of laughter. Professor Snape had a sense of humour. Who knew? A small noise caught her attention just then; in the bed next to hers, Lavender was beginning to stir. Hermione quickly tucked the slip of parchment away in her bag, found a clean set of robes, and dressed to face the day.

* * *

She had never had quite so much trouble concentrating in lessons. Usually she was completely absorbed in learning new material – so much so that it was difficult to get her to notice anything _other_ than the subject at hand. Today, though, she couldn't think about her work, so preoccupied was she with the accident of the day before, and the meeting she was due to have with Professor Snape come the evening. Her thoughts raced back and forth inside her head; she pondered possible explanations, hoped that Snape would be able to help her solve this – and wondered what she was going to do if he couldn't.

It was only when the whole class got up to practice the _Aguamenti _charm that she realised that she'd barely taken in any of Professor Flitwick's lecture. She couldn't remember ever being so inattentive before, and she resolved to pull herself together before someone noticed that she clearly had something else on her mind. The last thing she needed now was to be asked a lot of awkward questions that she wouldn't be able to answer. Hermione duly knuckled under and worked hard on the charm – and by the end of the lesson her diligence was rewarded by a long jet of clear water that arced across the room and accidentally drenched half of the back row.

Flitwick didn't seem to care about the mishap; he gave points to Gryffindor anyway.

Her other classes that day – Transfiguration and Arithmancy – passed without incident, though they went much slower than Hermione would have liked. Or perhaps time only seemed to crawl so much because she was waiting for seven o'clock to arrive. Eventually, of course, the evening did roll around, and after a quick dinner and a still more hurried explanation to Lavender about an after-hours lesson with Professor Snape, she practically ran down to the dungeons. Much as she'd always defended the unpopular teacher to the other students, she could admit that this was the first time in her school career that she'd actually looked forward to seeing him. But then, so much was different now.

Professor Snape's office had always been along the same stone passageway as his old Potions classroom, and on taking over the Defence Against the Dark Arts position he had not changed it. Hermione was relieved to find that this was still the case, or else she would have had to roam the castle looking for his rooms, which would have made her late for the eagerly anticipated meeting. As it was, she knocked on the door to the Professor's office just before seven, and was very pleased with herself when it took him a few moments to answer it. Her mother had always taught her that it was rude to keep someone waiting, and it was apparent from the delay that she had not.

Snape waved her into his office, and then directed her to go through the door at the back – presumably the door that led to his personal quarters. "We might as well get as much privacy as it's possible to get in a school full of teenagers," he muttered, in response to her questioning look. Hermione nodded and obeyed the direction, finding herself in a well-furnished sitting room, tastefully decorated in cream and Slytherin green. She looked around with a view to deciphering what she could of Snape's personality from the decor of his room – and then abruptly noticed she was not alone. And, more to the point, who else was there. Her jaw dropped.

In a worn but well-stuffed armchair, close to the warmth of the flickering fire, sat a man. A handsome man with shoulder length black hair and sparkling, lively grey eyes. A man who absolutely _should not_ be sitting in front of her at all, not anywhere, not ever again – let alone now, in the private rooms of Professor Severus Snape.

It was Sirius Black.


	5. Somewhere To Begin

**Author's Notes:** And now to meet a very much alive Sirius Black! This chapter answers a few questions, but poses a few more. The theory behind what was "supposed" to happen after the Third Task was taken from an essay I read on the HP Lexicon and thought was clever.

Since Chapter 12 has been finished on schedule, Chapter 6 should appear in 2 weeks time, as usual.

* * *

**5\. Somewhere To Begin**

She couldn't stop staring at him.

It was terribly rude, she knew, but she just couldn't tear her eyes away. His first reaction to this was to grin, but as the silence lengthened the grin faded, and he began to look rather confused and uncomfortable. They both remained frozen like that, neither moving nor speaking – until Professor Snape followed her through the connecting door from his office, stopped dead behind her, and snapped: "Miss Granger, whatever is the matter?"

Hermione had no idea how to answer that question. She didn't have a clue where to start. "I – you – I mean... that's _Sirius Black!"_ Her voice shook slightly. He was supposed to be _dead_. How could he be sitting in front of her, the very picture of good health? She had known that her memories were out of kilter with the reality of the world, but nothing had brought that fact home to her quite as hard as _this_.

Sirius shifted in his chair and raised an eyebrow. "Always nice to be recognised," he said, awkwardly. He probably already knew on some level that she had not been staring at him just because she thought that he was handsome.

"But that's – you..." Hermione stopped and took a deep breath. She wasn't making any sense. "I thought you hated each other!" The words burst out before she could stop them. It wasn't the most important problem with his presence in the room, but she was nowhere near ready to tackle _that_ yet. How was she supposed to tell this undeniably still living Sirius about comforting his devastated godson after the horror of his fall through the Veil?

Snape laughed, unaware of her dark thoughts. "Oh, we did," he said, cheerfully. "When we were at school together, we hated each other – quite violently, as it happens. But that was a long time ago now, wasn't it, Sirius?" Hearing his first name from Snape was as utterly bizarre and wrong to her as was Harry and Ron calling her _Granger._

Sirius, who had been looking at her rather uneasily, startled at being directly addressed. "What? Oh. Yeah. Half a lifetime ago. Doesn't really seem to matter all that much anymore, you know?" He smiled fondly up at Snape, saying, "We've been friends longer than we were ever enemies, now."

"Oh," Hermione said, weakly. Of course – a reasonable man like _this_ Professor Snape would hardly be likely to hold on to old grudges from his school days. Not that it had been one-sided; Sirius had always hated Snape quite as much as Snape had ever hated him; neither of the two grown men had been capable of acting their age where the other was concerned. How could there be peace between them in this world? An idea occurred to her. "Didn't you – I mean, weren't you in Azkaban?"

Professor Snape snorted, and Sirius spluttered as if he was choking. "Azkaban?" he yelped, sounding almost like the dog he sometimes was. "I know I was a hellion in my youth, but _Azkaban?_ No, never."

Maybe that was it, then. If Sirius Black had never gone to Azkaban, maybe he wouldn't have become stuck in his past, fixated on the enemy of his youth. Hermione had never been _quite _convinced that Sirius had been fully aware of how much time had passed, that he hadn't sometimes mistaken Harry for his father, James. The men before her had grown up, as the Sirius Black she had known had never really had a chance to do, and as the other Severus Snape had stubbornly refused to do. Her mind was reeling, but she gathered her wits enough to turn to Professor Snape and ask:

"But why is he here, anyway? I – you know what we were meant to be discussing. Do you really want me to explain everything to Sirius – um, Mr. Black?"

"Sirius will do," that man said, with a very charming smile. "And as it happens, Miss Granger, I already know of your situation. My dear friend here asked me for my opinion on the matter. Wouldn't have believed it if I hadn't seen about a hundred stranger things in my day job, you know."

"Sirius is an Unspeakable," Snape explained, in an even tone that somehow managed to convey the barest hint of pride. "More importantly, he is – well, he has been my partner in investigating strange occurrences for nearly eighteen years at this point. I'm afraid that it really didn't occur to me _not_ to tell him." He shrugged, but his expression was pained and his voice was sincere as he said, "If you are unhappy with my decision, Miss Granger, then I am sorry."

"I – no, actually, I'm fine with it." She turned to Sirius. "You're an _Unspeakable?"_ There was awe and admiration in her voice; Unspeakables had access to the one thing Hermione prized above all else – knowledge. While the boys had been so excited by the prospect of being Aurors that they hadn't bothered to consider any other career, her imagination had been captured by the description of the work carried out in the Department of Mysteries. Of course, she _did_ have to admit that it was strange to think of this Sirius working in the same place where the other Sirius had died.

He smiled. "Yeah. Always had a thing for experimenting, finding out about things I shouldn't know."

"I'll say," Snape muttered, darkly, but there was enough warmth in his eyes and expression to make it apparent that he wasn't really angry or annoyed. "You stole all the spells I invented and used them on me – which I believe is a fair summary of about half of the work done by the Unspeakables. I am not in the least surprised that they wanted to employ you."

"And you like telling people that they're stupid, and showing off how much more than them you know. I suppose it was only natural that you became a teacher." Sirius smirked at Snape, who rolled his eyes. He seemed to remember at this point that he was not alone with his friend, turning to Hermione and asking, "You have an interest in the Department of Mysteries, then?"

"Yes; becoming an Unspeakable was one of my possible career choices." The unpleasant events of the battle at the Ministry hadn't dampened her enthusiasm for the prospect of working there. "The boys said that after we left school we'd all be Aurors together, but I don't think that's really what I want."

"Most teenage boys want to be Aurors," Sirius said, with an air of great maturity.

"As if you were any different, mutt?" Snape asked, archly. "You were quite determined to be the greatest Auror who ever lived until you only managed an A in your Potions O.W.L." He sounded rather snide, but Sirius didn't seem to be at all offended by the words.

"I think things turned out for the best," he said, with a shrug and a smile. "I'd have embarrassed the Auror Office with my flying bike."

"Instead of just embarrassing yourself," Snape muttered, but his lips curled upwards slightly. He let out a sharp laugh and walked across the room to the kitchen. "Sit down, Miss Granger; I will bring over tea and biscuits to help with our discussion." So saying, he promptly turned away and busied himself with cups, saucers and plates. Hermione followed his instruction and seated herself in the armchair on the other side of the fire. It was comfortable, which surprised her, though she wasn't sure why it did. Perhaps it was just that Snape – even this version of Snape – was not a person easily associated with comfort.

The tea was served in a bone china teapot and the biscuits were stem ginger coated in Belgian dark chocolate – which was about what Hermione would have expected. Snape wasn't the sort to serve bag tea and digestives. She took one and bit into it while Sirius poured the tea, and found it to be delicious. Once she'd finished chewing, she asked, "So, um, Sirius – how much did Professor Snape tell you about what happened to me? I don't want to spend ages on redundant information."

Sirius smiled around a mouthful of biscuit. "Only really that he had verified that you had vivid and apparently genuine memories of what he could only describe as a parallel dimension or an alternate timeline. Even knowing Severus as I do, I still wasn't completely convinced until just now, when you seemed shocked to see me and asked if I'd been in Azkaban. Am I very different, in the world you remember?"

Hermione wasn't sure that it would be wise to tell Sirius that, until only the day before, he had been dead. "Um... somewhat unhinged, I think, but you'd spent twelve years in Azkaban so it's understandable. And, well, I suspected you might have taken to drinking out of sight, last year." She winced at Sirius' rather horrified expression; it was just conjecture, but even so she was fairly sure she was right. Mood swings, long periods of 'looking after Buckbeak', the despairing, wild-eyed look of the man – it all added up to some sort of depression-driven alcoholism. Which, as she'd said, was more than understandable for a man in his position.

"Ugh, the curse of the Blacks." Sirius didn't seem that surprised to hear it. "My darling mother took to drink after my father died. She drank herself to death at sixty." He shuddered. "Managed to avoid that fate myself, so far. Probably wouldn't have, though, not if I'd gone to Azkaban. Was I... a Death Eater, then? Is that why I was in prison?" There was a certain amount of trepidation in his voice and expression.

"Oh, no – well, I mean, everyone _thought _you were for a long time, but you were never really a follower of You Know Who." Hermione could see the confusion in both men's eyes. She sighed; she didn't really want to have to explain the events of that fateful Halloween, but it seemed she had little choice. "They... um, it was thought that you betrayed the Potters to You Know Who, but as it turned out the traitor was actually Peter Pettigrew."

Sirius nodded gravely, as though this made sense to him. "Yes; we found out that he was a Death Eater shortly after the disappearance of Voldemort. It tore Remus and me apart, losing James and Peter within a week of each other. I – well, he could barely stand even to look at me for years. We only really started talking again about five years ago. If I hadn't had Severus, here, then..." He broke off and stared at the floor for a moment, while Professor Snape leaned over and patted him slightly awkwardly on the arm.

"Of course, Lily took it worst of all," Snape said, quietly. "She more or less left the wizarding world and took Harry with her. For a long time I was afraid that she wouldn't send him to Hogwarts at all, especially after she got married again, to a Muggle. But I suppose she must have remembered how excited she once was to discover that magic was real, and go to school in an ancient castle, and decided she couldn't deny that to her son."

Well, that certainly explained Harry's low opinion of Gryffindor virtues; until he had come to Hogwarts, the only example he would have had was his mother, who had run away from everything. And if he had disliked his Muggle step-father... well, perhaps that was all it had taken to tip the scales in favour of Slytherin. "In my – world? Universe? Timeline?" Hermione shook her head vigorously. "Well, both of Harry's parents were dead, killed by Voldemort." If they used the Name, then so would she. "And he tried to kill Harry, but the curse rebounded and hit him instead."

"Wait. You're saying that Harry survived the Killing Curse?" Snape stared at her in frank disbelief. "That's impossible. You can't shield against the curse, and it has no known counter."

Hermione scowled. She wasn't used to being told she was wrong, especially when she knew she wasn't. "Harry is the only known person ever to survive the Killing Curse. That's why he's famous. Or, well, why he was famous in my own timeline. According to him, Professor Dumbledore said that it was some sort of ancient sacrifice magic; his mother gave her life for him, and her love stopped Voldemort's curse from harming him, apart from his scar. Which I never really got, since Lily Potter couldn't have been the first person to die for her child." She looked at Sirius, who seemed to be showing a glimmer of understanding.

"She chose to die," he said, simply. "I have come across theories about sacrificial magic, in the course of other work. And if what I've read on it is right, it would only work that way if Voldemort had wanted to spare her and she had refused for the sake of her child. Not that I can imagine him letting anyone live. Most people who are prepared to use the Killing Curse are not inclined towards mercy. That's why willing sacrifice almost never comes up."

Hermione remembered what Harry had told her about his Dementor-induced flashbacks. A cold, high pitched voice, telling a girl to stand aside. _He offered to spare her.__ Sirius was right.__ But why? _Dismissing it as unimportant for now – as far as this world was concerned, that had never happened – she decided to tackle a more pressing issue. "Harry still has the same scar here. Does that mean he survived the Killing Curse, but no one knows about it for some reason? Or is it just a regular scar? And what happened to Voldemort?"

"No one knows." Professor Snape's voice was quite even, but a nerve pulsed in his jaw. "He is gone, and has been for fifteen years. No one knows how or why, or even if he is still alive, but he has not been seen for a long time. Even the most devoted Death Eaters ceased all activity on his behalf over a decade ago." He pinched the bridge of his nose and gave a long-suffering sigh. "And now you want me to believe that this peace might be Potter's doing, however inadvertently?"

"Without his mother's sacrifice, how would it have happened?" A thought occurred to Hermione. "Unless it was his father..." She looked at Sirius. "How _did_ James Potter die?"

Sirius looked haunted, and she remembered with a pang of guilt that James had been his best friend. Though fifteen years might have passed since his death, that didn't mean that Sirius would find it easy to talk about. "Never knew for sure," he said, shortly. "Always assumed it was a Death Eater attack, but there were no real signs. He was just – dead. Unmarked, but dead. I – and Harry was with him, but he was fine except for the scar..." Sirius trailed off, frowning. "Makes sense, in a way. _That_ must have been why Voldemort disappeared. Can't believe no one ever made that connection before now."

Hermione shrugged. "It's not like it's an obvious solution, to think that a baby might have survived a Killing Curse. If you weren't talking to someone who knew without a doubt that it was _possible_, there's no reason why the thought would even cross your mind." Thinking out loud, she said, "So Harry _is _the Boy Who Lived, but no one knows it. And – it's an interesting symmetry, really; here, it was James' sacrifice that protected Harry from Voldemort, not Lily's." At this, Snape groaned, and she turned on him before she could think about the wisdom of such an action. "Why do you dislike Harry so much when you're not the petty man I knew, sir? And why hate James Potter but not Sirius Black?"

"I – really, Miss Granger, I fail to see how any of this is your business." He sounded rather like the old Snape at that moment.

Sirius laughed and cuffed him gently around the back of the head. "He hates James because the late lamented Prongs was an idiot – but unlike me, he never apologised for it, nor spent years making up for it." He shrugged. "Of course, James died very young; he never really had the chance. As to Harry, that's purely chivalrous on Severus' part. The boy is my godson, but he has always refused to have a thing to do with me."

"The brat is also very like his father – if you drained away all of James Potter's vague hints of a sense of decency." Snape's acerbic rejoinder seemed to Hermione to be unjust, remembering the boy who had visited her in the hospital wing, and who was apparently still her friend. Before she could say anything, though, he distracted her with a question. "So, is Voldemort dead, according to you?"

"Not... anymore." Hermione realised that this wasn't very helpful, and hurriedly elaborated: "I mean, I suppose he wasn't ever really dead, just stripped of his body and most of his power. He rose again a little over a year ago at the end of..." She gasped, and the two men gave her strange looks. "At the end of the Triwizard Tournament!"

"The Triwizard–? But that hasn't happened yet!" Sirius exchanged a meaningful look with Professor Snape. "Do you think that maybe...?"

"I don't know." Snape's face was entirely inscrutable. "It's possible, I suppose." He shrugged, then turned his gaze on Hermione, his eyes inquiring and intense. "So, would you say that the Triwizard Tournament was a Death Eater plot to bring about the return of their master, Miss Granger?"

Hermione thought about this carefully. "I couldn't say for sure," she admitted. "I don't know if the whole thing was set up as a plot or if Voldemort just found out about it and decided to use it. He had a spy at Hogwarts who entered Harry in the Tournament somehow as a _fourth _champion, and then when he touched the Cup at the end of the third task... it took him to the site of Voldemort's rebirth ritual. The Death Eaters took Harry's blood, and once they were done they were going to kill him. He only managed to escape because the Cup Portkey was somehow two-way. That's all I know, really."

"That seems... unnecessarily complicated." Snape's eyes were very wide, and he seemed more than a little overwhelmed.

By contrast, Sirius was almost gleeful. "Oh, but it's so very clever!" he exclaimed. "Think – if it had all gone according to plan, Voldemort is resurrected, the Death Eaters assemble, and then they all take the Portkey back to Hogwarts. During the final task of the Triwizard Tournament! With all the students and parents and foreign dignitaries waiting there to be slaughtered!" Hermione was stunned. She'd heard that Sirius Black was brilliant – Professor McGonagall had said so during third year – but this was the first time she'd ever seen proof of it.

"And that plan only didn't work because he found it harder to kill Harry than he thought he would?" Hermione suppressed a shiver; it was rather terrifying to think that the whole world as she knew it could have fallen so easily if not for Harry's ridiculous luck. Or possibly Voldemort's love of drama that had made him want to duel a fourteen year old boy in the first place. If just one little thing had gone differently, Voldemort might have won.

"If Sirius is right, yes." Snape frowned slightly, and added, "And he usually is right about this sort of thing. Unspeakables spend a lot of their time debating the potential consequences of more or less everything they do." Snape sighed in a rather long-suffering way. "So, how did the Potter brat escape the clutches of a murderous Dark Lord this time?"

"Priori Incantatem." Hermione considered the effect – which, naturally, she'd researched over the summer after fourth year – to be the most unsettling thing about the encounter. Harry couldn't have known that it would happen when he'd stood to duel Voldemort. And if it _hadn't_ happened... her friend would have died and Hogwarts would have fallen, if Sirius was right about what the Death Eaters' plan had been.

"Wait, so Harry Potter has the brother wand to Voldemort? Seriously? That's quite the coincidence." Sirius seemed to understand the implications, which didn't really surprise Hermione given what else he knew.

"Indeed," Snape said, with a slight sneer. "Potter seems to be very much a hero of coincidence. Or simply lucky, I suppose you could say." He paused to think for a moment. "I was going to say it might be useful to know where we can lay our hands on the brother of Voldemort's wand – but then, this was _your_ Potter, not the one we know. I have no idea whether the same wand would choose this Potter – probably not, unfortunately. And I'm not sure how we would check without raising suspicion." He stretched out his limbs and then reached over to pour a fresh cup of tea. "I suppose we should keep a careful eye out for any sign of Death Eater plots this year."

"The spy at Hogwarts," Sirius said, suddenly sitting up straighter. "Who was it and how did they sabotage the selection process?"

Hermione wasn't sure how much they knew about the workings of the Tournament, so she explained as fully as she could. "The champions are selected by a magical object called the Goblet of Fire. I'm not sure how it works or what he did to it, but I think he must have somehow convinced the Goblet that there was a fourth school competing, and that Harry was a representative of that school." Sirius nodded, a slight smile curling his lips; he seemed impressed in spite of himself. Then Hermione realised that she hadn't answered the most important question. "It – well, the spy was Barty Crouch. Not the politician," she added, hurriedly, seeing the incredulous looks on their faces. "The younger one."

"He's dead." Sirius sounded rather disappointed by this. "He died in Azkaban. The shame nearly killed his father, they say."

"I wouldn't be so sure that he's dead." Hermione was pleased that at least some things appeared to have happened in the way she remembered. "That was what _we_ thought, but it turned out that his father sneaked him out of prison. The person who died in Azkaban was his mother; they managed to change places somehow. It didn't do his father any good, really, since the boy was a devoted follower of his Dark Lord and had to be kept under Imperius."

Snape looked horrified, shaking his head in disbelief. "I almost think Azkaban would be better." Hermione didn't remember the Imperius curse feeling particularly unpleasant, but she supposed her opinion would be different if she had been forced to do something terrible as opposed to something silly. Snape frowned now. "Wait, if Crouch was presumed dead, how did he get into the school unobserved?"

"He attacked Mad-Eye... I mean, Alastor Moody and kept him prisoner all year, while using his hair for a Polyjuice Potion." The men seemed impressed, and Hermione wondered how they would react if they knew she had brewed said potion in second year. "He taught us Defence all year and no one seemed to notice, not even Professor Dumbledore. I don't know how he managed it. He even subtly helped Harry with the tasks because Voldemort wanted him to be the one to take the Cup Portkey and be part of his rebirth."

"A new teacher? I suppose we can consider Slughorn to be new this year," Snape said, slowly. "I knew Slughorn fairly well in my school days, as it happens, so if he is not himself _I_ at least ought to notice." He sounded almost proud of the fact, though Hermione knew from his words in the infirmary that he had no very high opinion of Professor Slughorn _or_ his student club. Then, as if aware that he had sounded somewhat arrogant, he smiled wryly and said, "Of course, if I hadn't been told of the possibility of a substitution, I doubt I would have thought to look. If this is a genuine case of dimension travel, you could not have picked a better time for it, Miss Granger."

This seemed to remind Sirius of why they were supposed to be there, because he shook his head and said, "I'm afraid that we're no further towards finding a way to get Miss Granger back where she belongs."

Hermione sighed. "I didn't really expect it." She might have hoped and dreamed that tonight's meeting would end with her back in her own world, with her own Harry and Ron at her side – but she wasn't a fool. The likelihood was that it would take much longer to accomplish, if it was even possible. Not that she even wanted to think about what she'd do if it _wasn't_. "Since I'm likely to be stuck here for a while, finding out things I ought to know is a good idea – at least so I don't end up locked in a mental ward." She looked sharply at Sirius. "Or, well, do you think I _am_ mad?"

"Severus says you aren't." That was all very well, Hermione thought, but it wasn't really an answer. Perhaps Sirius realised this, because he gave a sharp bark of laughter and said, "Don't worry; I'm in the habit of trusting Severus' opinion. If he says you're not mad, then I'm willing to hold off on sending you to the Janus Thickey ward." He smiled. "Besides, alternate dimensions are a subject we Unspeakables have at least thought about at some point or another. There are theories that say this is what the Black Veil does, send you to a parallel world."

"The Veil..." It was almost unthinkably bizarre to hear Sirius talk so casually of the artefact that had taken his counterpart's life. "Doesn't that – well, doesn't it just kill people?"

Sirius' eyes widened. "You know of the Black Veil? And you a sixth year student! That thing is housed in the deepest reaches of the Department of Mysteries – and yet you've managed to come across it somehow? Unbelievable!" As she'd have expected from a Marauder, he seemed more admiring of her audacity than anything else.

"I... it's being friends with Harry," she admitted. "I've ended up in all sorts of places that I probably shouldn't have been. I mean, I helped our Sirius escape from the Ministry using a Time Turner, once."

"Is this the story of your meddling with time?" Snape gave her a keen look of interest. "And how did you even get hold of a Time Turner, Miss Granger? The Ministry closely guard such things."

"I'll say we do," Sirius said, with feeling. Hermione could see why; who knew what a nefarious wizard could do with the ability to turn back time? It didn't bear thinking about.

"I – um, well..." Hermione honestly found the story a little embarrassing, and could hardly believe she'd ever been _that_ pushy about learning. "I wanted to do every subject in my third year, so Professor Dumbledore got the Ministry to approve a Time Turner for me, since there was no other way I could do all of that. I don't think he intended for me to have it for longer than that year; I think he knew I'd find it all too much, even with the help."

"You wanted to do every subject." Snape repeated her words in flat incredulity. Then he laughed and said, "Actually, what surprises me is not that you wanted to but that Dumbledore let you try."

Hermione shrugged. "Either he wanted to teach me a lesson about knowing my own limits, or he had some idea that it would be useful for there to be a Time Turner at school that year." She hadn't before considered the possibility that Professor Dumbledore might have had an ulterior motive in allowing her the Time Turner, but now that she _had_, it made a lot of sense. Why would he have given a highly restricted magical item to a third year student if he hadn't had some sort of plan – or, if not a concrete plan, at least an idea that he ought to be prepared for anything?

"And you ended up saving _your_ Sirius from going back to Azkaban?" There was still a measure of uneasiness in the voice of this Sirius as he spoke of the prison, much as he tried to sound light-hearted.

"Yeah. And we saved a hippogriff from execution at the same time. You flew away together..." Hermione became aware of the matching sceptical looks on the faces of both men. "What? I'm telling the truth! I'll show you the memory if you don't believe me!"

Professor Snape shook his head, but he was smiling. "That won't be necessary, Miss Granger," he said. "I believe you. Though if I can acquire a Pensieve, I wouldn't _mind_ viewing some of your memories of this adventure novel you call a life."

"Nor would I." Sirius grinned. "And to think, before this conversation I thought that _I'd_ had an eventful school career. Time Turners, rescuing criminals and dangerous beasts, excursions into the depths of the Ministry's most secret department… it sounds like quite a story."

"I suppose it does." Hermione imagined that to someone from a different world, her life would seem like an entertaining novel. To her, the fact that most of the interesting occurrences had been caused by an evil wizard trying to kill one of her best friends made it all a lot less amusing. "So there haven't been any plots to bring Voldemort back to life, or anybody trying to kill Harry, these last five years?"

Snape frowned. "On the whole, it has been very quiet at Hogwarts these past few years, save for the frustration caused by the more insufferable students." There was a slight ironic curve to his lips that made it a joke, where his more malicious counterpart would have meant every word. "There has been no significant Dark activity for well over ten years at this point, too."

"I don't know; there have been a few incidents recently." Sirius looked rather grave. "A lot of them on the continent, but if you work at the Ministry, you hear about these things. No one else does. They like to hush it all up, don't they?" He scowled. "Wouldn't have thought all that much of it if I hadn't heard Miss Granger's story. Now I have to wonder if the same plan to resurrect Voldemort is in effect here."

"If it is, forewarned is forearmed," Snape said, firmly. He looked at Hermione, and sounded a little guilty as he said, "Of course, we probably ought to be focusing our efforts on finding a way to send Miss Granger back to her proper reality, not picking her brains to help us fight the battles yet to come in ours." He poked at the surface of the table with the handle of his teaspoon. "I'll try scouring the Restricted Section of the library, but I think that Sirius has a better chance than I, what with having access to one of the biggest hoards of obscure magical knowledge on the planet."

Part of Hermione thrilled to the thought of such a place, and she found herself feeling very jealous of Sirius. _What wouldn't I give to have access to that knowledge?_ "I don't blame you for wanting to know about the world of my memories, especially if it could help you fight Voldemort. I _am _a Gryffindor, after all." She heard Professor Snape snort at this. Then, hesitantly, she added: "I told Lavender that I was having a lesson with you after hours to catch up on Defence, sir; would you mind _actually_ going through yesterday's lesson and homework so I have notes to show her? I don't think she suspects anything, but I don't want to give her cause to."

Snape nodded. "That seems reasonable, Miss Granger. Finish up your tea and we'll move this to my office." He glanced at Sirius. "This might not be very amusing for you, I'm afraid, Black."

"How fortunate for me, then, that I have a son I could be visiting while you two have your lesson." Hermione was a little shocked at Sirius' words, but then reasoned that since he hadn't spent years in Azkaban, there was no reason why he couldn't have a normal life just the same as any other man. That more than anything else brought home to her the extreme cruelty of what had been done to the Sirius she had known. His life had been taken from him by Wormtail's treachery long before Bellatrix Lestrange cast the curse that killed him.

"Yes, run along back to your Tower, Gryffindor fleabag." Snape's eyes glinted in much the same way as Dumbledore's habitually did. Sirius gave a bark of laughter and left the room, leaving Snape and Hermione alone with a pot of rapidly cooling tea. The Professor drained his cup and smiled at her, a sight that she still wasn't quite used to. "Drink up and then we'll get some practice in," he said, kindly. "You chose a good excuse; Miss Brown is well used to you coming to my office for lessons, and she knows that I take an interest in your academic progress."

"I got that impression from what you said about your favoured students." Hermione would have been pleased by the compliment – she _was _pleased – but she was rather distracted by the thought of Sirius with a family, his wife and children making the gloomy house on Grimmauld Place into a lively and cheerful place.

Of course, Snape was perceptive enough to notice. "Is everything alright, Miss Granger?"

"Oh, yeah, I'm fine." Hermione felt slightly embarrassed. "Sorry, I was just thinking about Sirius. He seems... so different from the man I knew, and yet he's very much the same in some ways." She shrugged, and Snape nodded thoughtfully. "Is he really married?" The words came out of their own volition, all in a rush, and Hermione honestly wasn't sure why she'd asked that when surely the most amazing thing was that Sirius was _alive_.

Professor Snape stared at her and then burst out laughing. "Sirius? Married? Good God, no! That's a good joke. No woman has ever interested him for long enough." He gave another chuckle and then abruptly pinned her with a stern, teacherly glare. "Now, that's more than enough gossip, Miss Granger. Time to get to work." Despite the tone, she noticed that his eyes were still sparkling.

Hermione gave a deep mock-affronted sigh, put her cup down on the table and reached for her bag.


	6. More Than Meets The Eye

**Author's Notes:** Thank you to everyone who has reviewed this story, or put it on their Follows or Favourites list. I do appreciate it, and I should have said so before now. Here, have some awkward conversations as a reward.

I haven't actually finished Chapter 13, but as long as I can get both it and Chapter 14 finished by 18th July I will go ahead with posting Chapter 7 on that date.

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**6\. More Than Meets The Eye**

On Friday afternoon, Hermione found herself in the unusual position of very nearly being late to a lesson. Time had managed to get away from her, somehow. She'd used one of her rare free periods to work on her Charms essay in the library, and had become so absorbed in the task at hand that she'd almost forgotten that she still needed to go to Double Potions. The only reason she could think of for this lapse was that she was alone – Lavender had Divination at that time – and had already become far too used to studying with a partner. Usually, even if one of them lost track of time, the other would be alert enough to notice. It was disconcerting, this evidence of how much she'd come to rely on her... friend in such a short amount of time.

Fortunately for both her pride and her academic record, she realised where she was supposed to be just in time, so that while she _was_ the last person to arrive at the dungeon classroom, she did at least manage to get there before the class actually started. She was glad of that, and not just because she hated to be late for anything. The discussion on Tuesday evening had made her eager to watch Professor Slughorn teach, so that she could see if he reminded her at all of the false Mad-Eye Moody from her fourth year. Knowing what she did, she was already a little suspicious of the very convenient way in which Harry had acquired the vial of Felix Felicis – although, of course, he wouldn't be allowed to use it even if he _did_ somehow end up in the Triwizard Tournament. Mind you, _this_ Harry was a Slytherin... but no sooner had she thought that than she felt guilty about it. Surely she was above such House-based prejudices?

Looking around the classroom, she saw the disloyal Lavender raising an amused eyebrow at her from the seat beside Padma Patil. Hermione scowled. Harry and Ron would've waited for her, she was sure of it. Now the only free place left was the one next to Draco Malfoy. Which... of course it was. She tried to disguise her reluctance as she crossed the room and sat down; there was nothing actually _wrong_ with this version of Malfoy, and she knew she wasn't being fair in transferring her dislike over to him. "Alright, Malfoy?" She made an attempt at friendliness while digging her copy of _Advanced Potion Making _out of her bag and opening it more or less at random.

He smiled and nodded at her. "Granger." She wasn't sure why they habitually used surnames when addressing each other, but she was glad of it. Just the idea of being on first name terms with _Malfoy_ made her head hurt, even if he was rather more friendly – and less of an unbearable pest – than the boy she was used to. "Did you lose track of the time?" he asked now, and to her surprise the question did not seem like an attempt at mockery.

Hermione shrugged. "Yeah, I guess so. Working on the essay for Charms." Though there was very little of the mean-spirited Slytherin Malfoy apparent in the boy sitting next to her, she still felt defensive. She didn't appreciate having attention drawn to anything she'd done wrong; really, he could have been a veritable saint and she still wouldn't have wanted to hear it.

"Yeah, I figured the only thing that would distract you from schoolwork would be more schoolwork." _Now_ he was teasing her, but only a little. Surely Harry and Ron would have given her more of a hard time than this, had she ever been late to a class? She bit her lip, feeling like a traitor; she refused to compare her dearest friends unfavourably to _any_ version of Draco Malfoy. It was wrong on principle, and she would not allow any such thoughts.

"Someone has to make up for all the people who don't bother to study," she returned, briskly, shaking her head in the hope of clearing it.

Malfoy laughed warmly, his grey eyes dancing, and Hermione suddenly realised that he looked a lot like Sirius. It made sense – she'd already known from the Black family tree tapestry that they were related – but until that moment she hadn't seen any resemblance at all. He wasn't anywhere near as handsome as Sirius, of course, but that didn't spoil the effect. She was so distracted that she nearly missed his response, which was to arch a pale eyebrow and say, "What, single-handedly? How very noble of you, Granger." Yes, that impish grin was very much like Sirius – and all at once she found it a lot easier to like the boy sitting next to her.

"Of course not single-handedly," she shot back, mock irritation supplanting the genuine. "I have Lavender to help me."

"How silly of me to forget." Malfoy spoke almost in a whisper, one eye on Professor Slughorn, who seemed about ready to start his lecture. "Although it seems that you're going to be stuck with _my_ help for this lesson."

She snorted. "Oh, dear. Well, I suppose I'll have to make the best of it," she said, with the air of one making a great sacrifice.

At that moment, Slughorn began to speak, so Malfoy never got a chance to reply. He did give her a rather brilliant smile, though, which she tried to return even as they both turned their attention towards listening to the teacher.

"The point of today's lesson is to show you the importance of the order of addition in potion brewing." Professor Slughorn had a warm, rich voice, and he spoke as one who cared about the subject. "Each of you has been assigned a potion, which you will brew alone, but if you confer with your bench partner you will discover that their potion has almost exactly the same ingredients as your own. The order of addition is different, however, and so the effects of the finished potion are different." He paused. "Brew your potion, observe your partner brewing theirs, and see what you can conclude about the importance of the order of addition."

Hermione looked at her sheet and found that she'd been given a potent anti-nausea potion. Then she looked at Malfoy's assignment, one of the more powerful calming draughts, and noted the similarity in the ingredient lists. It really was rather striking, though some of the preparation techniques were different. That gave her an idea, so she raised her hand almost without consciously choosing to do so.

"Miss... Granger, is it?" Professor Slughorn frowned. "Let's see, now – Granger, yes. You missed my first lesson because you were ill. I trust this afternoon finds you in better health?"

"Yes, sir, very much so," she said, politely. "I was just wondering how we were to separate the effect of changing the order of addition from the effect of changing the preparation of some of the ingredients? I would imagine that stewed beetle eyes have different properties to dried ones."

"A very intelligent question," the Professor said, smiling eagerly. Hermione glowed at this praise, the like of which she'd never heard before in that classroom. "You will find that the preparation affects the stability and potency of an ingredient, but not the nature of its effect. As you want the ingredients you add first to be in more stable preparations, most of you will find that the potions you and your partner have been assigned will differ in this respect. Rest assured that, while most potions will not work if you do not prepare the ingredients correctly, the order of steps is a far more important consideration in determining what the effect will be."

"Oh. Thank you for explaining, sir." Hermione smiled. He knew the subject well, and he seemed like a good teacher. Surely he couldn't be an impostor. Though she did have to admit that, at the time, the false Moody had seemed like a good teacher as well. And if she remembered correctly, the young Barty Crouch had passed more O.W.L.s than she had even taken, which would suggest that he was intelligent enough to pass muster as a teacher in more than one subject. Especially at a school that had once employed a talentless fraud of a man like Lockhart.

Professor Slughorn waved a hand dismissively. "Don't mention it, Miss Granger. I am always happy to answer questions from my students." He paused, frowning, and then said, "Hm. Granger, Granger, now where did I... oh, of course! Are you any relation to the Dagworth-Grangers?"

Had Harry not told her about Slughorn's lunch on the train, Hermione might have been puzzled about the relevance of this question. As it was, it seemed clear to her that he was trying to ascertain whether or not she was worth collecting. "No, sir, I don't believe so. I'm Muggle-born, you see."

Now, prejudiced or not, Hermione's opinion of Slytherins was not very high – her relationship with this world's Harry notwithstanding – and she was more than prepared for the Professor's manner to become cold and distant on hearing her answer. However, she found herself surprised by his reaction. "Is that so? Well, now, it just proves what I've always said: there are brilliant Muggle-borns in every generation. You simply must come along to one of my soirees, my dear. I insist upon it!"

Hermione was not given to arguing with teachers, especially during lessons, so she said only, "Yes, of course, sir." Then she applied herself to her work, ignoring the snickering of her desk partner in favour of grinding asphodel bulbs into a fine powder. It helped to imagine that they had Malfoy's smirking face on them. _Grind, grind, smash..._ She noticed that Malfoy was staring at her, so she stopped what she was doing and glared back at him. "Can I _help_ you?"

"Um... Slughorn said to watch our partners brew. So that's what I'm doing." Malfoy was all the more loathsome for having a valid excuse.

"I'm not doing anything interesting," she protested, in a low voice.

He snorted. She hated him. "I was just admiring your technique in grinding the bulbs," he said, gesturing to his own roughly sliced specimens. "It's such a fine powder. You must really despise whoever you're thinking about." There was a playful glint in his eyes.

Damn him for being so perceptive. Though, now she stopped to think about it, _did_ she despise him? On balance, she rather thought not. She didn't even quite hate her own, more unpleasant version; she pitied him too much for genuine hatred. "No, not really," she said, brushing a stray curl out of her eyes and giving him a brief smile. "He's just kind of annoying sometimes."

"Only _kind of_ annoying?" Malfoy asked, in mock-surprise. "I must be losing my touch."

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Who said it was you I was thinking about, Malfoy?"

"Oh, just a hunch." He grinned. "That and you looked about ready to grind _me_ up for potion ingredients just now."

She realised that she might have been a little rude, especially considering that this Malfoy hadn't really _done_ anything to her, besides laugh at her a few times. It seemed she wasn't doing very well at keeping her feelings for the other Malfoy from colouring her interactions with this one. "Sorry, I shouldn't have snapped at you. It's not really you I'm annoyed with." Her eyes darted to the front of the room and narrowed slightly. She was careful to lower her voice so that Malfoy could hear. "I was just... embarrassed about Professor Slughorn asking me to a stupid party in front of the whole class."

Malfoy laughed softly. "Yeah, he's like that. Tried to _collect_ Potter last time, saying his mother was one of the finest students he ever saw in Potions. That didn't go over well, of course; everyone except Slughorn knows that Potter's _ashamed_ of his dear Muggle-born mother." The bald statement raised a rather chilling question for Hermione: was Harry ashamed of his mother _because_ she was Muggle-born? And if he was, was he ashamed of_ her_? Was _that_ why he wanted to keep their friendship secret? Malfoy must have seen some of her distress in her face, because he said, "You know it's only idiots like Potter who think like that, right? Even Slughorn doesn't care, and he's a Slytherin too."

Hermione snorted – Malfoy was trying to cheer her up; it wasn't his fault that his words had almost exactly the opposite effect – and said, weakly, "I almost wish he _did_ care; I wouldn't have to go to a party then." Although... it occurred to her that if she wanted to observe Slughorn closely, it might be a good idea to take the opportunity to see him in a more relaxed environment. If he wasn't the real man, he would have to take a regular dose of Polyjuice Potion; with a bit of luck – and a lot of nosiness – she might be able to catch him in the act.

"If I didn't already know what Slughorn's parties were like, I'd tell you not to worry," Malfoy said, quietly, adding the stewed beetle eyes and beginning to stir his potion in a steady clockwise rhythm. "Unfortunately, Severus – sorry, _Professor Snape – _told me all about them. He was part of the Slug Club when he was at school, you know."

Hermione did know, but she wasn't sure whether she ought to admit it. There were more pressing issues at hand, anyway. "Is it seriously called the Slug Club?"

"Yeah – or, at least, I _think_ so." Malfoy paused for a moment and looked thoughtful. "Well, Dad always called it that, but he wasn't actually in it so maybe he was just being sarcastic. Slughorn must not have thought he'd amount to anything much, since he and his friends were more interested in disrupting lessons with practical jokes than actually learning anything. Or forming useful contacts for their future professional lives, which is what Slughorn seems to think school is for." He smiled. "Obviously he has no interest in me, since I'm connected to such a terrible waste of talent and bloodlines."

She tried to imagine Lucius Malfoy as the class joker and failed utterly. The intensely snobbish man who had looked at her as though she were the dirt on his shoes would never have been so undignified, she was sure. Clearly both Malfoys were very different here. "I don't know if I really like the idea of the Slug Club anyway," she said, carefully adding a single unicorn tail hair to her bubbling mixture and wondering when she'd decided to confide in Draco Malfoy of all people.

"Well, it can be useful to the people he picks out, and he doesn't want anything particularly unsavoury in return." Malfoy shrugged and pulled a face. "But still, yeah, I agree with you. It just feels... I don't know. Kind of creepy, I guess." He scratched the side of his nose with his quill before making a brief note in the margin of his recipe about anti-clockwise stirring. "You on the simmer stage of yours yet?" he asked, neatly changing the subject as Professor Slughorn approached their cauldrons.

"Um, not quite – I have to add the crushed dandelion stems yet." Hermione smiled, grateful for Malfoy's quick thinking. "Is yours supposed to be that colour? I thought calming draughts were usually very pale."

"I... well, I think it fades on simmering. Or I hope so, anyway." Malfoy frowned at the rather lurid green contents of his cauldron, before turning to appeal to Slughorn. "What do you think, sir? Has something gone wrong with it?"

The Professor glanced at the mixture and shook his head. "As you say, Mr. Malfoy, it will fade as it simmers. Perhaps it should not be _quite_ so brightly coloured, but it is a very good effort." His eyes fell on Hermione's potion next, and he beamed. "Oh, and this is very good indeed, Miss Granger, nearly perfect. You seem to be a good influence on one another," he added, brightly. Malfoy nearly exploded from trying to hold in the laughter inspired by _that_ comment.

With a mischievous glance at her bench partner, Hermione said, "Oh, and so of course you'll invite Malfoy to one of your parties, too... right?" Her very innocent tone just barely concealed the devilish amusement she got from watching both Malfoy and the Professor suddenly become incredibly uncomfortable.

"I..." Slughorn had naturally had no such intention, but it would have been rude for him to say so. He swallowed and accepted the situation with surprisingly good grace. "Of course. Mr. Malfoy, would you do me the honour?"

For his part, Draco Malfoy would rather have been forced to drink a first year's crude attempt at a boil cure potion than spend a minute at one of Slughorn's parties, but he did at least have a rudimentary sense of manners and knew that he couldn't refuse. "Certainly, sir, I'd be _delighted._" He spoke rather stiffly, as though gritted teeth were involved, and cast an unpleasant look at Hermione, who was not affected by it in the least.

"Right, then." Slughorn looked confused, as though he was not entirely sure how he'd been manoeuvred into this position. "Very good." He drifted away, still frowning unhappily.

Malfoy gave her a wounded look. "What on earth was _that_ for?"

"Well, if you're right about these parties being dreadful, the last thing I want is to have to go to one alone," Hermione said, beginning to clear away the unused ingredients from her workspace. "And I like Lavender too much to put her through that sort of thing."

"Well, then, I wish you liked me more – or should that be less?" Malfoy scowled at her, but his heart didn't seem to be in it; after a brief pause and with some amount of grudging admiration, he said, "Though, really, you were downright devious just then. If I'd done it, Dad would've been proud of me. But as it is, I bet if I told him, my next letter from home would just be a Howler full of derisive laughter – as it should be, letting you get the better of me like that." He gave her a rather lopsided grin and said, "I think Slughorn might have been wrong about the whole good influence thing."

Surprised by how well he was taking it, Hermione let out a quiet chuckle and said, "Yeah, I don't think there's any good influence going on here. I've never been so distracted in a Potions class before!"

"Well, no one asked you to force Slughorn into inviting me to a party!" Malfoy stopped and blinked a few times, as if he had only just realised how ridiculous that sounded. "You must be the bad influence. I can't see how it's my fault."

Hermione shrugged. "I never normally do things like this. It must be your bad influence."

"Must it? Can't it just be you picking on me for no reason?" He sighed dramatically. "Oh, well, I can't exactly _help_ being such good company that you want to drag me to terrible parties." Hermione giggled at this, and then felt very ashamed of herself. Giggling was for silly, empty-headed girls. Hermione Granger did not _giggle_. She took a couple of deep breaths, trying to control the traitorous impulse that had made her act so unlike herself. And then Malfoy said, "You should laugh more often, you know."

Shame gave way to confusion. "I... you – what?"

Malfoy fidgeted a little. "It's just... well, you look really serious most of the time, so I didn't realise that you sort of look much pret– no, I mean easier to – no, uh, I mean _better_... dammit, what was I saying? Oh, right. Yeah. You look better when you smile or laugh. That's all." He took a deep breath and looked everywhere rather than at her.

In spite of herself, Hermione flushed. Apart from Viktor, no boy had ever said anything nice about her appearance – and no one of any gender had ever encouraged her to laugh more. "Um... thanks, Malfoy."

"That's alright." He seemed a lot less flustered now. "Dad always says that if you think something nice about a person you should tell them, and if you think something unpleasant then you should keep it to yourself – unless they're being a complete twat." Hermione nearly choked on her surprise, and Malfoy held up his hands in the widely recognised it's-not-my-fault gesture. "His words. Seriously."

"I think your dad is the bad influence," Hermione said, shaking her head. She was fairly sure that _her_ parents would have washed her mouth out – most likely literally, being dentists – if she had spoken in such a fashion in front of them. And yet Lucius Malfoy was lax enough to be completely okay with it? That sounded wrong, horribly wrong.

"Oh, he is," Malfoy said, cheerfully. "Severus always says so. Apparently Dad has no business looking after a teenager when he's barely any more mature himself. Or something like that, anyway."

"Some people never seem to grow up," Hermione said, disapprovingly, though in all honesty she found that she couldn't really disapprove too much of the father who had shaped Malfoy into a decent person rather than a bigoted Slytherin brat. She shrugged and turned her attention back to her work. "I think both potions should have finished simmering by now, according to the instructions. How does yours look?"

Malfoy took one glance at the potion and immediately put out the flame under it. "Seems to be done. And I said it would get paler on simmering, which it has, so I consider this a successful lesson." He decanted some of the potion into a vial to present to Slughorn, and Vanished the rest. Then, very casually, he said, "I don't suppose you want to work together on the essay about order of addition? We could head to the library after dinner."

Hermione found it funny that she'd gone from having no willing library companions to suddenly having two people vying for her study time. Still, strange as it was to admit it, she had enjoyed her conversation with Malfoy, and had no objection to working with him again. "Okay, sure, we can do that," she said, decanting her own – probably Outstanding – potion. "Lavender will be with me, as usual, but you and I can work together if you want to. She likes to work on Divination alone, away from my sceptical comments."

"Divination." Malfoy rolled his eyes in a manner that showed he agreed with her assessment of the subject. "And I'd always thought that Lavender was _sensible_." Hermione felt a sudden urge to defend the girl, although Lavender had really only been her friend since the beginning of the week, according to her own personal reckoning of time. When she didn't say anything, Malfoy just smiled and said, "Well, I have a very important 'hanging out in the common room' commitment to keep, so I better go now. I think you have another class now, anyway, right, Granger?"

"Yeah, Runes." Though she answered the question, a different one was preying on Hermione's thoughts, and in the end she decided to ask it. "Malfoy? Why _do_ we only use each other's surnames?"

He looked slightly uncomfortable. "Er, well, we just always have," he said, but something about his tone told her to keep pressing.

"Oh, I know, but – I mean, it's sort of weird, isn't it? You call everyone else by their first names." Not like her own world, where Malfoy had seemed blissfully unaware that anyone, including his so-called best friends, even _had_ other names.

"I – yeah, I know." Malfoy's cheeks looked rather pinker than usual. "It's just... well – okay, I'll come clean. When we first met, I couldn't manage to say _Hermione _properly – I mean, I was only eleven! So I called you _Granger _instead and you seemed happy enough to follow suit."

She would have laughed, but he looked embarrassed enough already, and she'd probably tortured him enough for one lesson. "Ah. It did seem weird, but after a bit it was just how things were. I only thought to question it just now."

He laughed gently. "Don't worry, I think I'll be okay to call you Hermione now." His pronunciation was perfect, but something about the way he said her name seemed different to the way everyone else did. Hermione shook her head. She was _not_ fanciful. "Um, I mean, if you'll let me," Malfoy said, awkwardly, apparently unnerved by her silence.

"Sure, why not? Since we're going to be study partners and all... Draco." It should've felt wrong, saying that name, but somehow it didn't. She picked up her bag and hefted it over her shoulder – it wouldn't do to be nearly late to another class. "I'll see you later to work on that essay."

And, as he smiled at her, she couldn't help but wonder if she was actually _looking forward_ to it


	7. Even Hell Can Get Comfy

**Author's Notes:** And now, a Hogsmeade weekend. It is currently 21st September, which means that a little over two weeks have passed since the events of the last chapter. There is a sort of "bombshell" at the end, but I'm not sure if it's actually going to come as a surprise to anyone. Mystery isn't really my strongest point as a writer.

Still not finished with Chapter 14, but I'd feel worse about not posting a chapter than about getting a bit behind on my writing. Maybe I'll be able to finish 14 and 15 in the next two weeks. Either way, Chapter 8 will be posted on 1st August as per the fortnightly schedule.

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**7\. Even Hell Can Get Comfy**

Hermione was scared by how well she was settling into this new life. Although she _did_ miss Harry and Ron – with a fierceness that took her by surprise, given the amount of time they'd spent driving her mad – she found that she was becoming comfortable in this place, with these people. Lavender was everything she would have wished for if told she could have a female best friend: she was a worthy study partner and confidant, generally light-hearted but capable of seriousness when necessary. The other Gryffindors were good company, too, as were her Ravenclaw friends Lisa and Michael. Even her meetings with this world's Harry, secret though they had to be, still had the power to make her happy.

And then, of course – there was no getting around it – there was Draco.

In the past, she had always believed that she was very bad at recognising when a boy was attracted to her, but this time she was fairly sure that she was right. He kept turning up to study in the library while she was there, and she was almost certain that he only did it in order to spend time with her. More than that, there was definitely something in the way he looked at her, an intensity of a kind she hadn't seen since Viktor had returned to Bulgaria. And, just as it had then, that barely-hidden warmth and passion melted her bones, leaving her wondering if perhaps _she_ might be equally attracted to _Draco_. Which would have been all very well, if only the idea of actually trying to have a relationship with him had not been so very painful to her.

It was not, as might be imagined, that she couldn't deal with the fact that it was _Draco Malfoy_ who was interested in her. While that was rather strange – one of the strangest things she'd encountered so far – he was too different a person to the one she'd known for her to find him so repulsive. No, what bothered her was the knowledge that she did not belong in this world, that it would be irresponsible for her even to consider something as dangerous as getting involved with someone here. How could she allow herself to care for anyone when she had no idea how much longer she would even be there? When – who knew? – she might one day fall asleep, or be hit by a spell, and be whisked back home without even the chance to say goodbye?

For several days, this had seemed to her to be a completely insurmountable objection. Then she had worked up the nerve to confide in Professor Snape, who had simply listened quietly before saying, "So, you're worried because you don't know how much longer you'll be in this world?" She had nodded, feeling very small and stupid for even mentioning it – and then he had leaned forward over his desk and murmured, "Let me tell you a secret, Miss Granger. _Neither does anyone else_."

Hermione had wanted to say that this was not at all the same thing, but after thinking about it a little more she had accepted the wisdom in the comparison. There was no point in avoiding everyone and refusing to take part in life simply because one day you would have to leave it behind, whether by strange magic or by dying. Though perhaps her worry was premature or even unnecessary, as she had no idea if it was actually possible for her to return home. Even Sirius, with all the resources of the Ministry at his disposal, had not as yet managed to find a solution to her predicament.

Perhaps she really was mad, after all. Aside from her own memories – which seemed more distant and unconvincing every day – she had no evidence that she had ever lived any differently. Logically speaking, if anything was false it would have to be her remembered past and not the very substantial present day world. Not that Hermione believed that for a minute. Professor Snape had seemed very sure that her memories were genuine – and she knew herself, somewhere in her heart, that she had not imagined or dreamed any of those things.

No, she knew the truth – that she was stuck in an unfamiliar world with no obvious way back to her own, and growing more entrenched with every passing day. It was a pitiable situation, and she really ought to have spent more of her time dwelling on the hopelessness of it all, fighting off despair and misery. Instead she was thinking about a _boy_ – of all things! – and she couldn't even really say that she was sorry about that.

Which was probably why, when Draco asked her to go to Hogsmeade with him, she had a brief lapse of sanity and said yes.

They were in the Gryffindor common room after dinner on the Friday before the first Hogsmeade weekend of the term. Lavender and Draco were having a good-natured argument about the Quidditch league, while Hermione exchanged eye rolls with an equally unimpressed Neville over the top of her Defence textbook. Perhaps she should have already dragged Lavender off to the library to work on homework – especially with the loss of her usual Saturday afternoon study time – but tonight there was just something so restful about being in the common room. She actually felt that she _belonged_, that she was truly welcome there, a feeling she relished and took every opportunity to bask in.

Hermione was busy noting down anything that might help with her essay, and so wasn't attending to the conversation; the only reason she could tell the Tutshill Tornados from the Ballycastle Bats was the latter's cute little mascot. Thus it came as something of a surprise to her when she suddenly noticed that Draco was leaning over towards her and addressing her. "Sorry," she said, awkwardly, flushing slightly. "I, uh, didn't catch that. What were you saying?"

"Get lost in your book?" Lavender teased.

"Well, what else am I supposed to do?" she asked, perhaps a little too defensively. "If you _will_ insist on talking about Quidditch."

Draco sighed. "I despair of you, Hermione. Quidditch is a fine sport." His eyes shone with warmth, making his disapproval all too obviously an act. "Anyway, all I said was... well, I asked if you wanted to hang out with me when everyone goes to Hogsmeade tomorrow. We could have lunch together or something."

"So you don't despair of me _that_ much, then," she returned, only realising when the others laughed that she had made a joke. Then her thoughts turned to his question and how she should answer it, given that this was what passed for asking someone out at Hogwarts. She looked at Lavender as if she imagined her friend could tell her what she should do. Though of course that was impossible, since Lavender didn't know the most compelling – _only?_ – reason why she shouldn't accept.

Seeing her questioning look, Lavender laughed and said, "Oh, don't worry on my account, Hermione. I don't mind if you two go together. It's not like I'll be lonely; I can always go with Seamus."

"Such sacrifice for my sake," Hermione said, with heavy sarcasm, and Lavender snorted. "I – okay, Draco. That sounds great." Even knowing why she shouldn't do it, she still wanted to. And anyway, she reasoned, it was only lunch. There couldn't be anything wrong about having lunch with a friend, right? She fiddled with a roll of parchment, wishing she could feel excitement unalloyed by the unhappiness and guilt brought on by her situation. It wasn't fair that she should find a boy whom she liked and who liked her back _here_, in a world that wasn't her own and where she knew that she couldn't stay. She had long known that life wasn't fair, of course – she wasn't a child – but she hadn't imagined irony could be this cruel.

And then, quite suddenly, she realised that she hadn't thought about _her_ Ron as anything other than a friend for almost two weeks. However badly it ended, at least this thing with Draco had helped her get over _that_ embarrassing and hopeless infatuation. So despite her misgivings, she resolved that she would enjoy herself in Hogsmeade. Whether it was a bad idea or not, there was no point in agreeing to do something only to be miserable while doing it. That wouldn't be fair, either to herself or to him. Hermione let a small private smile creep over her face as she looked back down at her book. She was sure it wouldn't prove _too_ difficult to make the best of it.

* * *

Saturday morning dawned dry and bright, but there was a sharpness in the air that proved that what summer there had been was definitely on its way out. Hermione closed the window, ignoring Parvati's grumbled protests at the noise, and turned to her wardrobe to look for some warmer clothing. She had a vague idea that she should feel nervous about the coming day, and worry more about how pretty her clothes were than how warm. That sort of frivolity was not in her nature, though; she reasoned that since Draco clearly found her attractive enough in her school robes, any of her nicer outfits would do. Besides, she hated being cold.

After dressing and making a rather half-hearted attempt to tame her hair, she headed down to the Great Hall for breakfast. She went alone, since Lavender refused to get up before ten o'clock at the weekends – a fact she was glad of when she met Harry in the entrance hall. He appeared from the stairwell to the dungeons just as she descended the main staircase from the first floor, and he was likewise alone. There was not a single other soul nearby, no one to see or hear or report on what they did, so Harry discarded his Slytherin disdain and greeted her warmly. She smiled; it was so convenient that she could almost imagine that he'd somehow arranged their meeting on purpose.

"Hey, Hermione – I was hoping to run into you today." He grinned broadly and reached into the inner pocket of his robes, withdrawing an envelope which he then handed to her. "There. Happy birthday. Well, I know it was actually on Thursday, but I didn't get a chance to give this to you then."

Hermione stared at the envelope in near-disbelief. She didn't remember ever getting anything from Harry or Ron on her birthday in any previous year. Not that she had ever really bothered with the day herself; before Hogwarts she hadn't had any close friends with whom to celebrate, and after... well, it wasn't exactly easy to celebrate – or even to buy presents – during term at a boarding school. She'd always told herself that she didn't care and that it wasn't a big deal, but her reaction to something as simple as a birthday card from a friend was evidence enough that she did and it was.

Harry laughed softly at the expression on her face. "You thought I'd forgotten, didn't you?"

It was a cheerful accusation, and she summoned enough composure to reply in kind. "Well, seeing as haven't said one unnecessary word to me for the last two days, can you really blame me for thinking that?"

"You know the walls have ears," he said, more seriously. "If I could've got the time – like this – to meet you privately, I would've done." He sighed. "You're not the only one who wishes we could do this differently, you know." Then he seemed to brighten up a little and nodded towards the envelope. "Are you going to open it?"

"Um, sure." Hermione tore the flap open as neatly as she could and extracted the card. A piece of paper fell out and fluttered to the floor at her feet. She bent down to pick it up, and found that it was a ten Galleon gift voucher for the bookshop in Hogsmeade. "Oh, Harry, that's really nice of you. You know me, I can never have enough books."

"Yeah, that was my logic," he said. "And I didn't think I could fit a whole book inside a birthday card."

"It would have to be a really big birthday card," Hermione replied, studiously ignoring the reminder that it had been necessary for Harry to hide her present away.

"Well, yeah." He smirked a little, adding, "Anyway, I wasn't sure of my chances of buying you a book you don't already own. You've got a bigger collection than most libraries."

"Don't let Madam Pince hear you." Hermione found it hard to believe that she'd ever aspired to be anything like the school librarian. The woman seemed so cold to her now, so completely absorbed in her books. That was no longer what she wanted to be. People were more important – and much better at surprising her. Smiling, she looked down at the card in her hand; it was clearly custom designed, because the image was of a lioness sitting in a plush red armchair reading a book. Then, as she watched, an emerald green snake slithered into view over the lioness' shoulder, and flicked its tongue at the book. "Oh, that's really sweet," she exclaimed, poking the snake, which hissed warningly at her finger.

Harry laughed. "I don't think he realises he's a picture," he said, his response to what could only have been Parseltongue confirming her theory that he was still the Boy Who Lived, even if he was unaware of it. "So, Hermione," he went on, his voice taking on a mischievous tone. "I hope you're going to enjoy yourself at Hogsmeade today?"

She stared at him blankly. What did he mean? Had he heard that she was going to lunch with Draco? Was that really important enough for the school gossip network to bother with? Apparently so. Rather stiffly, she said, "Yes, well, I intend to." Then she shook her head and smiled. "You make sure to enjoy yourself, too."

"Oh, I will; Ron's a real laugh, honestly." Harry grinned.

Without thinking about it, Hermione replied, "I know." She was thinking of her own Ron, and didn't remember until she saw Harry's slight frown that she didn't really know the one in this reality. Hurriedly, she corrected herself: "I mean, you're always telling me that."

"I didn't realise you were listening," Harry said, incredulously. "Or that you believed me."

"I believe that _you_ enjoy his company." Perhaps the world would have ended if Harry Potter and Ron Weasley hadn't met and become best friends. "That isn't to say that I think that _I_ would." At times she'd found her own Gryffindor Ron difficult to deal with; she didn't like to think how she would manage with a Slytherin version.

"Hah, okay. Fair enough." Harry nodded towards the doors of the Great Hall. "Better go in for breakfast, hadn't we? You go first and I'll loiter for a couple of minutes before I follow you."

Hermione was used to this sort of skulking around by now, but it still hurt a little. She refused to show it, though. "Yes, alright. Thanks again for the card, Harry – it was really thoughtful of you."

"It was the least I could do, really," Harry said, quietly, looking rather embarrassed. She was familiar with his response to praise or recognition, though somehow she had expected that to be different here. Impulsively, she reached out and briefly squeezed his hand. His eyes widened in surprise, but before he could say anything she slipped away through the door into the hall, a small satisfied smile on her face.

The Gryffindor table was nearly empty, as were the other three; it was only eight-thirty, and Hogwarts students were no more prone to early rising than any other teenagers. Despite that, she had half-expected to see Draco waiting for her at the table – and indeed, there he was, stirring a cup of coffee and blinking sleepily at a plate of scrambled eggs. From the look of him, he hadn't been out of bed for very long, and he wasn't yet really awake. She wondered if he had got up on purpose to meet her, or if this was normal for him – but then decided she didn't much care either way, as long as he was there.

Dropping into the seat next to him, she said, brightly, "Morning, Draco."

He looked at her rather blearily. "You're suspiciously chipper for this early in the morning," he grumbled, but passed her the toast rack and marmalade all the same. "Want some coffee?"

"You're joking, right?" Hermione snorted. "My parents would kill me. Do you have any idea what that stuff does to your teeth?"

"Suit yourself." He shrugged and poured her a glass of water. "Though that marmalade is full of sugar, and that's not exactly good for your teeth either."

Hermione spread a thin layer of orange marmalade on a slice of brown toast. "I know, but I never have very much of it – and we all need _one_ little vice."

"And yours is _marmalade_?"

She scowled. "As if that's any more ridiculous than coffee?"

"Well, when you put in that way, I suppose not." Draco smiled. "I am defeated by your superior logic."

Hermione took a bite of her toast. "As you always will be," she said, with a hint of a smirk. "So you had better start getting used to it." As he laughed, Draco's eyes glittered in a way that made her stomach turn over. She took another hurried bite of her toast in an attempt to dispel the feeling.

"I think I can learn to live with it."

Any reply Hermione might have wanted to give was made impossible by the arrival of a rather dishevelled looking Neville Longbottom. He sat down on the other side of Draco and complained, "You didn't even wait for me this morning. I might have _slept through breakfast_ for all you'd have cared."

Draco snorted, watching Neville reach for the serving dish of bacon. "You? Sleep through breakfast? Not bloody likely." Then he made a gagging noise and said, "Ugh, are you really going to eat black pudding? You know what's in that!"

Neville shrugged. "I like it. You're just a wimp. Black pudding is like haggis – only disgusting when you think about it." He rolled his eyes at Draco's continued childish antics. "Anyway, don't try to distract me, Malfoy; you were very rude to just leave me behind, though I guess I know why you did." There was something very pointed about the way he looked at Hermione.

"Well, my dad says that getting up early is one of the habits of highly effective people," Draco said, haughtily. Then he snickered. "Well, he actually said 'highly effective and really annoying' – but it still counts."

Neville sighed and then stretched, yawning widely. "Having to get up early always feels like I'm being punished."

"See, I was being kind by leaving you to sleep." Draco smirked.

"You were being kind to _yourself_," Neville shot back, obviously unimpressed. Hermione found herself almost more surprised by the difference in him than in anyone else. Had Neville's low confidence levels really been so easily fixed? Was it just a matter of having actual friends, rather than hanging around on the outside of various already self-sufficient groups? Seeing this far happier version of the boy she had known, she felt a little guilty about how she – and the others – had treated _their _Neville.

She decided to intervene in the conversation. "We're _all_ being kind to ourselves by getting out of bed at a decent hour," she said, half-joking, half-serious. "Just think of all the people who are still asleep and wasting precious hours of their weekends."

Draco frowned. "I _am_ thinking of them, and it's making me jealous." Then he seemed to realise the implications of what he'd said, because he flushed and hurriedly added: "Uh, not that I'd rather be asleep, of course."

"Of course not." Hermione tried not to laugh out loud; it would be rude and possibly hurtful to do so. Her amusement was still obvious in her voice as she said: "You got up earlier than usual to have breakfast with me, didn't you?"

He winced at her bluntness but then smiled sheepishly. "Guilty."

Hermione's smile widened to a grin almost without her being aware of the fact. She was surprised by how happy his admission made her. "Hey, it isn't a _crime_, you know," she teased.

"No, I suppose not." His eyes glittered. "As long as you don't think I'm stalking you or anything."

"Not at all," she returned, brightly. "How can you be? You were here first." And she would have left it there, except that she noticed a slight trace of nervous unease in Draco's manner – so, instead, she patted his arm gently and said, "Believe me, if I start to feel like you're stalking me, you will be the _first_ person I complain to about it, okay?"

Draco seemed to relax a little. "Okay," he said, and turned his attention back to his breakfast.

They met in the Great Hall at quarter past ten, more than ready to be released from the castle into the comparative freedom of the village. Hermione had returned to her dorm room to wake Lavender before she left; it was no longer early enough to be offensive to her friend, who would definitely not want to be late for her own meeting with Seamus. When she'd left the room, Lavender had been deep in conference with Parvati about exactly which outfit would make the best impression on the lucky boy. Hermione smiled quietly to herself. This Lavender was much more sensible and studious, but she was not a completely different person, after all.

"You look nice," Draco said, a little awkwardly. Hermione suddenly realised that she had never been on an actual date before in her life – and then that she was assuming that this _was_ a date. Perhaps she was no less silly than Lavender, in the end.

"I look exactly the same as I did at breakfast," she pointed out, raising an eyebrow.

"Well, I wasn't _awake_ at breakfast," he retorted. "So you'll have to deal with getting late compliments."

She snorted. Any compliments were an improvement on what she was used to. "Thanks, then." Whether she agreed with his assessment of her appearance or not, she did know how to accept flattery graciously.

"Only the truth," Draco said, gallantly, and then offered her his arm. Hermione smiled and took it, torn between embarrassment and pleasure at the old-fashioned gesture. She allowed Draco to draw her out of the castle doors and onto the path down to Hogsmeade, past Professors Snape and McGonagall, who she saw exchange a knowing and rather amused look as they went by. Before she could do much more than blush a little, though, she was out in the sunlight – and suddenly it was very easy to forget about everything aside from Draco and the beautiful day outside.

Beautiful it might be, but Hermione had barely gone twenty yards before she found herself glad that she'd thought to put on a warm cloak. When in direct sunlight, it was perfectly glorious and warm – but the moment she stepped into any patch of shade, she could feel the bite in the air. Remembering the scene she'd left behind in the sixth year girls' dormitory, she hoped that Lavender would be as sensible in _her_ choice of clothes. Though that probably depended on how determined she was to impress Seamus.

It was not a very long walk to Hogsmeade, and when they reached the village she quickly determined that very little seemed to be different about it. The only thing that distinguished this outing from any other was the company – and Draco proved himself not that different from her old friends by nodding in the direction of the chocolate shop. "Is it alright if I just drag you into Honeydukes' for a moment?" he asked, almost nervously. "I just have to pick something up; I don't want to spend ages in there drooling, honest."

She laughed. "I can't imagine you drooling."

"I have been known to, on very rare occasions." They headed over to the shop and went inside. The shelves were packed with enough chocolate to drive both of Hermione's parents to a nervous breakdown. Draco paused and then asked, "Do you have a favourite flavour?"

Hermione hesitated, thinking. Despite the influence of dentist parents, she was not entirely immune to the siren call of chocolate. "Um... yeah, I really like the chocolate-coated plums, actually." If she twisted her mind in a few knots, they could _almost_ qualify as a healthy snack.

"Hm... these ones?" Draco grinned and picked up a box of the sweets. Hermione nodded warily, and then watched as he swept off towards the counter still clutching the box. He returned barely a minute later and presented her with a Honeydukes' bag. "These are for you," he said. "Call it a late birthday present."

She took the bag automatically, feeling incredibly touched. That made it _two _birthday presents from people who evidently cared enough about her to remember the date. "Thanks," she said, embarrassed to realise that she was slightly choked up from a simple gift of chocolate. "But I'll have to share them with you if I don't want to upset my parents."

"I think I can cope with that." They left the sweet shop and headed back out into the village. "So, is there anywhere in particular that you wanted to go while we're here?"

Before Hermione could reply, she was distracted by spotting a familiar face in the crowd. It was Sirius Black – and no sooner had she wondered whether he was there to visit Professor Snape than he diverted his course to approach them. Her heart beat a little quicker in her chest. Perhaps he was in Hogsmeade looking for her because his search had borne fruit. Did he have news for her? Had he found some way to send her home? A treacherous little voice in the back of her head asked a far more disturbing question: _Would I really want to go?_

"So, are you finally learning how to impress girls, Draco?"

Draco apparently hadn't heard Sirius' approach, because he started visibly at the sudden words. But it was Hermione who would end up the most surprised of all – because Draco's reaction was emphatically _not_ anything she would have expected in a thousand years. He turned, looked up at the man, and then his face split into a genuinely happy smile.

"Alright there, Dad?"


	8. But Everything To Gain

**Author's Notes:** Perhaps I should apologise for ending the last chapter the way I did. Though I'm not sure if this chapter really explains anything anyway...

Certain events in this chapter _might_ be a little corny. I'm sorry.

Chapter 15 is so near to being finished that I decided to give you Chapter 8 on schedule. I will be posting Chapter 9 a week early (on **8****th**** August**) because I will be away on holiday over the weekend of the 15th. I'm just nice like that.

* * *

**8\. But Everything To Gain**

_Dad?_

Hermione's brain was having severe difficulties with processing this new information.

_How can __Sirius__ be Draco Malfoy's father?__ What is going on here?_

Draco was looking at Sirius – _his dad_ – and hadn't noticed the confusion on Hermione's face. Sirius, on the other hand, was looking straight at her, and from his annoyingly knowing expression she gathered that he understood very well what she was thinking. "Morning, Miss Granger," he said, with his usual rather dazzling smile. "I didn't realise that you were my son's girlfriend. I would've thought that you'd have better taste." He reached over and ruffled the blonde hair to take the sting out of the stealth insult.

"Dad!" Draco scowled and ducked out from under Sirius' hand. "Stop trying to embarrass me!"

"Who's trying?" Sirius smirked. "I'd say I'm succeeding pretty well."

As Hermione watched their interaction, she suddenly realised the true meaning of all the things Draco had said about his _father_ over the past weeks. She'd had trouble reconciling his descriptions with any picture of Lucius Malfoy – and apparently there was a good reason for that. In fact, she thought that if she hadn't been hung up on the idea that Draco must be referring to his _biological_ father, she probably would have worked out the truth by now. An irresponsible former prankster who was close enough to Professor Snape for his 'son' to be on first name terms with the man. A staunch Gryffindor who, despite his own past as a troublemaker, was proud of Draco for his achievements and his position of responsibility. Really, who else could it be but Sirius Black?

She sighed, chagrined. She really _hated_ missing things like that.

Draco distracted her from her self-censure by saying, "I didn't realise you knew my dad, Hermione." He was still glowering at Sirius.

_Nor did I_, she thought, but had the good sense not to say it aloud. "I don't really know him. We met in Professor Snape's office a couple of weeks ago when I went down for a study group." Sirius had even _mentioned_ having a son at the time, she remembered. How had she not made the connection?

"Huh." Draco continued to look unimpressed, but Hermione thought she caught a spark of mischief in his expressive grey eyes. "See, I _knew_ you hadn't really come here to see me. You wanted to see Severus, but when you saw that he had an after-school class you _pretended_ you were there for me."

"That's a bit harsh, don't you think, Draco?" There was a note of dog-like whine to Sirius' voice, appropriately enough.

Unaffected by either the plea or the accompanying puppy dog eyes, Draco shrugged. "Truth hurts sometimes, doesn't it?"

"Alright, pup, that's enough." Sirius chuckled and shook his head. "You've made your point; I won't make you look silly in front of your girlfriend again, okay?"

Draco's eyes flicked sideways nervously to look at Hermione. "I... um, well – she's not exactly..."

"Ah! I see." Sirius grinned. "So she's not your girlfriend just yet, eh?" Hermione fought the urge to remind the man that she was standing right in front of him.

"Can't you just drop it, Dad?" Draco still looked rather irritated, which Hermione found completely understandable. "What are you doing in Hogsmeade today, anyway? Did you come here because you couldn't resist an opportunity to annoy me? Or do you have something else to do?"

"You really shouldn't talk to me like that, you know, young man." Sirius' attempt at a stern parental voice made Hermione want to laugh. For that matter, Sirius seemed to be finding it hard to keep a straight face himself. After what looked like a brief starting contest, he relaxed a little and said, "I'm not actually here to torment you; I came to see Severus. Found out a few things this week that I thought he might be interested in." He gave Hermione a pointed look as he said this, and she quickly realised what he had to mean: that he'd found out something that might help her in her objective of returning to her own familiar reality.

"Are you getting him involved in a research project?" While subterfuge did not come naturally to Hermione, she had no choice but to make an attempt at it. She could hardly question Sirius openly about this in front of Draco. The Unspeakable was an intelligent man; she would have to trust that he would understand what she really meant.

Of course Sirius grasped immediately what Hermione was asking, and responded similarly. "Not quite at that stage yet," he replied, smiling a trifle apologetically. "Just a few things that might become projects in the future. I wanted his opinion on some obscure and probably very boring magical theory work I found." Here his eyes came to rest on Draco, sparkling with amusement all the while. "Perhaps you want to forgo your little date to help us out, pup?"

Draco shook his head very decisively. "No, I can't; there's going to be – um. I mean, I promised Hermione. And I'm sure that neither of you would want me there anyway."

In that he was almost certainly right, though Hermione imagined that if Draco _had_ wanted to go along, he wouldn't have allowed such a consideration to stop him. Still, though – she did rather wonder what he had been going to say before he'd abruptly cut himself off. Was he hiding something from her? Or from Sirius? "Oh, Draco, you'd really give up an afternoon of boring magical theory discussions for me? That's very sweet of you." Sirius snorted at Hermione's words, and she reflected that she was definitely getting better at teasing her friends.

"Hey, it's bad enough that I have to put up with this sort of thing from my dad, but now I get _you_ giving me a hard time as well?" Draco glowered at her, but she did not apologise. It wasn't necessary; she already knew that he wasn't really annoyed or upset. Such banter was common among the sixth year Gryffindors, and there were seldom any hard feelings involved.

"At least you're already used to it," she replied, smirking slightly.

"That he is." Sirius grinned and tried to ruffle Draco's hair again, but the boy ducked away and pulled a silly face at him. "Alright, alright, I'm going before you hex me for interrupting your date."

"Believe me, I've been very tempted," Draco muttered. "Do you bully Severus like this every time you see him with a woman?"

A strange look came over Sirius' face. "No, I don't. But then Severus never gives me any ammunition." Then he laughed softly. "And besides, he knows too much about me, so he could easily turn the tables if I tried."

"Well, I guess the answer must be for me to pry into all of your secrets, then." Draco raised his chin to give Sirius a challenging glare.

Sirius snorted. "If you think that will stop me from teasing _you_, pup, you're sadly mistaken. It's too much fun." Hermione looked at the man and wondered exactly how he had ever been considered a suitable guardian for a young child. Even now, his behaviour towards his charge was more that of an older brother than any sort of father – though, given that _this_ Draco was a nice and relatively well-adjusted person, perhaps even that was better than his having been raised by Lucius Malfoy. Despite the teasing and the mock argument, she could tell that there was a good deal of genuine affection between Sirius and his 'son'.

As if he could hear her thoughts and was trying to prove them, Draco suddenly let his serious face crack into a smile and patted Sirius on the arm. "It's okay, Dad. I wouldn't have it any other way, you know that."

"Yeah, I reckon I do, pup." Sirius' answering smile nearly caused a passing seventh year to swoon. "But I better leave you kids to your fun and go bother Severus. He won't mind missing maybe the last day of the Scottish summer to talk about my theories – but you two probably would." Since Hermione knew that whatever theories Sirius wanted to discuss could end up having a direct impact on her future, she would have given up any number of sunny days to be able to listen in. But of course, there was absolutely no way she could say so without Draco learning the truth – and possibly thinking her insane – so she held her peace and merely shrugged.

"I don't know about that, Dad, but this may be the last time we get to go to Hogsmeade without getting rained on for the rest of the year." Draco grinned and nodded up at the mostly cloudless sky.

"And you _did_ already promise Hermione," Sirius said, nodding sagely. Then, before Draco could make any response to this, he stepped back and said, "It was nice to see you again, Hermione. I hope we get to talk more next time we meet." She nodded, feeling a thrill of excitement. That surely meant that he had _something_ to tell her, even if he hadn't found a way for her to get home just yet.

Draco frowned. "I hope you're not flirting with her." The tone of his voice suggested that he was at least _mostly_ joking.

"Would I do something like that?" Sirius' innocent tone was very nearly convincing.

"Do I really need to answer that?" Draco raised an eyebrow rather pointedly at Sirius, who laughed. "Okay, you should go meet up with Severus before he finds something better to do without you."

"As if he could!" Despite the cocky reply, Sirius took his leave and walked away from them, his steps leading him rapidly in the direction of the castle.

As they watched him go, they noticed a growing throng of students heading the other way, which prompted Draco to say, "We probably ought to hit all of the popular shops right now, before the horde gets here."

"Right." Hermione tried to think of anywhere she wanted to go that was likely to be popular, but she couldn't. If Draco had not been with her, she would probably be happily lost in the bookshop by now, one of the few places that was almost never crowded on a Hogsmeade weekend. "I don't know; surely you want to look at Quidditch supplies or the joke shop?" she asked, thinking of the places where Harry and Ron had always loved dragging her.

Draco shrugged. "I didn't think you cared much for either."

"I don't," she admitted. "But I thought _you_ might. I'm only really interested in the bookshop and the shop that sells antiques and magical trinkets. You know the one I mean?"

"Oh, yeah, Dervish and Banges. We could go poke around in there for a bit, if you wanted," Draco suggested. "That's usually pretty popular."

"Sounds like a good idea," Hermione said, and a few minutes later they were in the shop and surrounded by magical gadgets of elegant design and dubious utility. Out of pure curiosity, Hermione began to rifle through a selection of 'bargain' divination tools, and ended up holding a small crystal ball of a very old-fashioned make. Something about it had caught her attention, though she wasn't sure what. "Here, look at this." She picked it up and held it out to Draco. "Do you think these fittings are brass? That's meant to enhance prescient powers, right? Maybe it'd help Lavender with her readings for that terrible essay."

"I don't know. It might well be brass." Draco took the ball and carefully scrutinised it – then tapped it with a fingernail and listened closely to the ringing sound. "Either way, the crystal's good quality." He handed it back to Hermione with a smile. "But, I mean, do you really _want_ to help with that essay? You do mean the one she was complaining about on Thursday evening, right? When you told her that it was all her own fault, since she wouldn't have had to do it if she'd chosen a real subject instead of Divination?"

"Yeah, that essay." Hermione enjoyed being able to tease Lavender about her enthusiasm for Divination. It was hard to understand why an intelligent and sensible girl would care about such a subject, and harder still to grasp why she would listen to a foolish old fraud like Professor Trelawney.

"Oh." Draco seemed to think for a moment, and then he smiled. "You're a good friend."

Hermione wasn't sure whether she ought to be offended, or if she should just pretend to be. "Does that come as a surprise to you?" she asked, quietly.

"No, not really." Draco's eyes glittered. "I just thought it might be nice for you to hear it."

"Oh. Um, well." Hermione felt somewhat flustered. "Yeah, you're right. It is nice to hear."

"Why would I be surprised?" Draco said now, as they moved towards the counter with their various purchases. "You've seen how my dad and I talk to each other. He teases me mercilessly, but he's still a good dad."

"He seems like a lot of fun." Hermione had to suppress the thought that Sirius seemed almost _too much _fun; it wouldn't have been very polite to say so out loud.

"Oh, he is." Draco gave a little laugh and said, "Though to hear Severus tell it, trying to get him to be a responsible father was ridiculously hard. He just wanted to play with me all the time, and didn't know the first thing about rules or discipline. If not for Severus, I'd have probably turned out to be the worst sort of brat, I guess."

Well, that certainly explained a lot!

Hermione handed over the payment for her items and then turned back to Draco, a slight smile playing over her lips. "So, your scary uncle Severus had to be the mean one, then? Is that what you're saying?" It felt very strange to use Professor Snape's first name.

"I'm not sure that my 'scary uncle Severus' would enjoy hearing that description of himself." Draco smirked. "So of course I will have to use it the next time I see him."

"You wouldn't!" Hermione was appalled by the idea of any teacher knowing that she had been less than respectful in talking about him – especially Professor Snape. The man had been nothing but kind to her, after all, and was even trying to help with her displacement problem. When Draco's only response was a snort of laughter, she scowled and said, "You're such an evil little git, Malfoy."

"Hey, now." His voice was deceptively innocent. "It wasn't me who slandered a Hogwarts teacher by calling him scary."

"Because blackmailing your friends is totally what you do when you're a paragon of goodness and virtue," Hermione retorted. For about half a second the two of them glared at each other – and then their composure dissolved into fits of giggles that took several minutes to pass completely.

Once the laughter had died down and they could speak again, Draco offered his arm and asked, "Where to now? Want to get a cup of tea and then browse the bookshop until lunchtime?"

Hermione couldn't disguise her enthusiasm for the prospect of shopping for more books, especially considering the ten Galleon voucher she had hidden in her pocket. Of course, there wouldn't have been any point in even trying to disguise it; Draco knew well enough what her feelings on the subject were. "Do we have to have tea first?" she asked, laughing again at the rather indignant look this question brought to his face.

"Well, I like that!" he exclaimed. "I'm going to let you drag me round the bookshelves for two hours, and all I want in return is a nice cup of tea. And now you want to deny me even that?"

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Don't be so overdramatic, Draco. Of course we can have a cup of tea if it means so much to you."

"I knew you had a heart really," Draco said, though the attempted gravity of his statement was quite ruined by the grin that threatened to consume his face. Hermione would have been in a similar condition of ridiculous happiness herself if not for her treacherous mind; it would not allow her to forget that she shouldn't _be_ here, in this world – or at least not for very long. It was both stupid and cruel to spend time with Draco when she knew that she would have to leave him, and irresponsible to waste most of a day shopping in Hogsmeade when she should be discussing her predicament with Sirius and Professor Snape.

But then, if Sirius had wanted her to be there, he would surely have said something – wouldn't he? And it was so nice to be able to go to Hogsmeade and _not_ have people watching her and her friends, to be nothing but an ordinary seventeen-year-old girl. Her eyes narrowed slightly and her jaw tightened; this world was trying to seduce her, to tempt her into staying where she didn't belong. It was working, too – which was entirely her own fault. What was she doing here? She ought to have gone into the Hogwarts library on her first day and not come out again until she'd found the answer.

Draco touched her arm and jolted her out of her frozen trance. "You alright there, Hermione?" He sounded concerned, which only made her feel more wretched.

"Um, yeah, more or less." There was no point in telling him what was bothering her; he wouldn't understand unless she told him the full story, which she wasn't prepared to do. "Just... I keep feeling like there's something I should be doing instead."

He laughed lightly and shook his head. "Remember, we said we'd work on our Potions and Defence essays tomorrow, so we could take a well-deserved day off?"

"I guess..." Though for once Hermione was not sure if working on homework essays would make her feel any better.

"Remember, you deserve to take a break from time to time." Draco patted her arm and then gave her a stern look. "This better not be an attempt to get out of going for a cup of tea. If it is, I might have to make you have a slice of cake as well."

"How very cruel of you," Hermione said, dryly, beginning to walk towards the tea shop. "You know I can't have that much sugar at this time of the morning."

Draco snorted. "Would your parents kill you?"

"Well, maybe not _literally_," she replied, remembering her mother's strictures against sugary treats when she'd been a small child. "But I doubt they'd approve of me eating cake _and_ these lovely chocolates on the same day."

"Hm." Draco put his head on one side thoughtfully, as if giving the matter some serious consideration. "Alright then. No cake. I'll see if I can get them to serve us a plate of biscuits instead."

Hermione stopped walking and stared at him, considering making some objection to this – but after a moment decided in favour of just shaking her head and walking on, laughing quietly all the while.

* * *

After a good fortifying pot of hot tea – apparently Draco had not been serious about the biscuits – Hermione was very ready for a lengthy tour of the Hogsmeade bookshop. She hoped to have a chance to spend Harry's gift voucher without Draco noticing, but even if she didn't get one it would be enough of a treat just to have a willing accomplice in browsing the books. Harry and Ron had many strengths as friends, but they did not understand her love of reading and had never even tried to. Draco was nowhere near as passionate about studying as she was, but he did read fiction for pleasure, so bookshops and libraries were still important to him.

It was unexpectedly wonderful to be given space to look through the history texts, without someone impatiently watching over her shoulder and complaining that _surely_ she had enough books already. Draco was entirely absorbed in a shelf of historical novels, apparently considering the merits of a series of books about the lives of ordinary wizards during the institution of the Statute of Secrecy. Hermione supposed that was the magical equivalent of the many ridiculous – and inaccurate – stories that Muggles wrote about the Reformation, or the Civil War. She'd learned the hard way not to read such things; the authors didn't care nearly as much as she did about historical accuracy, so what was the point?

When it came to reading, Hermione's preference was for non-fiction – books full of interesting and obscure facts, or complicated dissertations on the nature of magic. Her extensive reading and unparalleled grounding in theory was almost certainly the reason why her spells usually worked well the first time she tried them. Unlike practically everyone else in the class, she always knew exactly what she was doing and why it was done that way. Harry and Ron had never wanted to believe that magic worked like that – any excuse not to study – but really, she was the living proof that it _did_.

Her eyes fell on the spine of a very promising book, and she pulled it out of the shelf to look at it more closely. The title stood out in stark relief on the cover: _Muggle Myths and their Basis in Wizarding Reality. _It was a book that Hermione had been trying to get hold of for some time – ever since she had heard about it in one of her third year Muggle Studies classes, in fact. Even as a child, long before she'd known anything about magic, she had loved mythology and fairytales. To find out how many of those cherished stories had been secretly influenced by the hidden world of wizards would be nothing short of fascinating for her.

"You really don't believe in light reading, do you?" Draco appeared suddenly behind her with a small stack of novels and a smile.

She bristled. "This _is_ light reading. Look at it; it's hardly a textbook, is it?" And indeed, her prize was a very slender volume compared to most of the other books in her collection.

"That's not what I meant." Draco's smile did not seem at all discouraged by her defensive reaction. "You should read something less serious, purely for entertainment. At least every now and then." He nodded at the top of his novel pile. "I thought you might like this one."

She picked up the first book and looked at it. There was a picture of a young woman in rather old-fashioned dress robes, under the stylised title text that proclaimed the book to be _The Alchemist's Daughter_. It sounded like a cheap historical romance to Hermione, but she trusted Draco's judgement and turned it over to read the blurb. It promised an action-filled mystery story, complete with intrigue, murder and a quest for immortality. Quite against her expectations, she felt the stirrings of interest in her mind. Hermione did not read novels, and in days gone by she had been perversely proud of this resistance to frivolity – but surely it was time to branch out a little? She could make an exception, couldn't she?

"It looks interesting," she conceded. "Perhaps I'll give it a read and tell you afterwards how good you are at figuring out what I'll like."

"That _is_ an important question, isn't it?" Draco raised an eyebrow at her in a way that might have been suggestive. Hermione rolled her eyes at him, which only served to make him laugh.

She blushed then, both at the implications of _those_ words in _that_ tone, and at the way his laugh made her feel inside. "I'm glad you agree that it's important," she said, relieved that she had kept her composure well enough to speak properly, at least. "Anyway, now that I've agreed to read your novel, maybe you will let me choose a few more books on history or theory _without_ teasing me about them?"

"And where would be the fun in that?" The innocent tone in Draco's voice was patently fake.

"You just said you wanted to make me happy – well, more or less," she replied, with a slight toss of her head to show her disapproval of his very obvious insincerity.

Hermione had found it difficult at first to adjust to the cheerful banter and teasing that occurred frequently in her new friends' conversation. It made her realise that she, Harry and Ron had been unusually serious for their age – though considering the things they had each gone through, perhaps it wasn't really all that surprising. She had adjusted to the new way of things as quickly as she could manage, though she still felt a little out of place among her more light-hearted fellows. No one had yet suspected that there was anything amiss with her, though, so she could only assume that her counterpart had been similarly awkward in matters of humour. Somehow teasing Draco came to her more easily than anything else, though she was not particularly interested in analysing why that might be.

Draco snorted, but gave a polite little half-bow and said, "Yes, I suppose I did. And here you are, defeating me once again with your superior logic. Perhaps I should retreat for a while and let you browse the books in peace."

"Perhaps you should," she returned, evenly. "Though retreating isn't a very Gryffindor thing to do, is it?" Hermione couldn't account for the way she felt. She certainly did not like other people following her around bookshops – it was _her_ time, surrounded by the books that had been her first friends – and yet at the same time she was reluctant for Draco to leave.

"A strategic retreat may well be the best response, even for a brave man." Draco's eyes sparkled in a way that made her almost sure that he knew exactly how she was feeling, which in turn made her feel awkward. "It's only temporary, anyway, because we have to be at the Three Broomsticks by twelve-thirty."

This was something new. "We do?"

"Yeah, I've got a table reservation." Draco didn't quite meet her eyes as he said it, which immediately raised her interest – and suspicions. However, the time he'd given was less than an hour away now, and she supposed that she could wait that long to find out what was really going on.

"Okay, then. You might have to drag me away from the shelves when the time comes, though."

Draco smirked. "I was kind of expecting to have to, don't worry."

"Yeah, I suppose the warning wasn't really necessary." Hermione gave a slightly sheepish half-smile. "I'll try to keep track of time, and meet you at the shop door in" – she checked her watch – "fifty minutes?"

"Okay, sure – though you _are_ the only person I know who can spend over an _hour_ in a bookshop without getting bored." Draco flashed her a grin and then drifted away towards the back of the shop, leaving Hermione alone with her favourite reference books and – best of all – the privacy to use her gift voucher from Harry. She smiled to herself and returned her concentration to the shelves before her.

Shortly before half past twelve, they arrived at the Three Broomsticks with their book purchases in hand, and Hermione was more sure than ever that something was up. Draco seemed twitchy and nervous, which wasn't at all normal for him, and he kept looking at his watch as if he was afraid that he would miss something. It was almost enough to make her want to confront him and ask what the matter was – but she decided against it, since she would surely find out for herself soon anyway.

And so she did. Once they were inside the pub, he led her over to a door at the back that led to one of the private dining rooms. She followed him wordlessly, not wanting to ask questions or voice her sudden realisation of what all of this was about. It seemed obvious – and yet she didn't dare say it, even to herself. If her assumption was wrong, how humiliated would she be?

As it turned out, she was not wrong. Draco threw open the door to reveal a dinner table set for ten, a large cream cake that would've sent Hermione's parents into fits sitting in pride of place at its centre. And there around the table were her friends – Lavender and Seamus, Neville and Parvati, Lisa and Michael, Dean and Susan Bones, who was _possibly_ his girlfriend – toasting her with Butterbeer and wishing her a happy birthday. It was all Hermione could do not to burst into ridiculous tears of happiness, though she hoped she looked only surprised, and not as overwhelmed as she felt.

Draco stopped beside her and put a hand on her arm. "We couldn't let you come of age without doing something to mark the occasion," he said, sounding rather proud.

Somehow Hermione found her voice. "Thank you," she breathed, looking around the table with both warmth and tears in her eyes. "All of you. It was a lovely thought." Her heart seemed to be lodged in her throat – and she had a sinking feeling that any attempt _not_ to become more attached to these people would be doomed to failure.


	9. Can't Hold Out Forever

**Author's Notes:** Time for some romantic payoff. An end to dithering! Or, at least, to dithering on this particular issue...

Yes, this is a week early because I am on holiday from the 12th-20th August, and I preferred to publish this chapter early rather than late. Chapter 10 will be posted two weeks from now, on 22nd August.

* * *

**9\. Can't Hold Out Forever**

Hermione found that she had surprisingly little time to herself over the weeks that followed. In her own reality – or the world of her memories – she had always spent quite a bit of her time alone, despite her close friendship with Harry and Ron. Now, though... now it seemed like she always had something to do and someone to do it with. If she wasn't in a lesson, she was studying or writing an essay or just relaxing in the common room with Lavender, Neville and Draco. It was wonderful to finally feel like she belonged somewhere, but the constant presence of her friends did make it hard to look into possible solutions for her predicament.

Not that she had any great hope of finding anything in the Hogwarts Library. There was already an Unspeakable on the case, after all, and even he had yet to make any major breakthroughs, despite the reams of interesting information he had found deep in the hidden archives of the Department of Mysteries. It was very unlikely that she would be able to find an answer before Sirius did, she knew that, but her pride demanded that she at least try to do her own research. Doing nothing would be too much like giving up. And one thing anyone who knew her at all could say was that Hermione Granger never gave up, no matter how difficult the problem might be.

More than anything, she refused to give up simply because she was so very tempted to do so.

It was _so __tempting_ to pretend that this was normal, to allow herself to be a part of this world, to embrace the friends she had found here. Even though she missed Harry and Ron more than she would ever have imagined – an ache like someone had torn her heart out of her chest – she knew that there were people she'd miss here if – no, _when_ she went back. That wouldn't stop her from leaving if the opportunity ever presented itself, but it would make things more difficult. Knowing that she couldn't have everything, that she would lose what she'd gained here if she did manage to find a way home... it was an unpleasant thought and she preferred not to dwell on it.

Fortunately – or not – there were so many available distractions that she didn't have to. Chief among these was the impending Triwizard Tournament, which was causing just as much of a stir as she remembered from her fourth year. She would have called it _déjà vu_, if not for the fact that she knew that she actually had seen all of this before. The people considering entering the Tournament were different, as this was two years later, but the reactions were practically the same. She felt like she'd heard most of the conversations before, and on several occasions only just managed to avoid revealing her knowledge of the Goblet of Fire.

It was all very strange, and even though she'd made peace with the differences between this world and her own, the Tournament continued to bother her. A big event like that, a significant event, one that should have happened already but hadn't – it was enough to give her a headache. She hadn't enjoyed her fourth year all that much, and the Tournament had been at least partly responsible. Well, that and Ron's inability to fathom that other people didn't always think and feel the way that _he_ would have, had he been put in the same position. The idea of Harry putting himself forward for _more_ attention had seemed thoroughly ridiculous to her, whatever Ron thought, but being caught in the middle of that stupid argument had worn her down. Of course, it had probably been worse for Harry.

That thought made her wonder if he would be mysteriously chosen again. After all, Voldemort had to be aware of how he had died – or been defeated– even if no one else was, so he would probably want Harry's blood for his rebirth just as he had in her own world. And the Tournament was _late_. The only way she could account for that was if it had only ever happened as a result of that plot, which must have taken two more years to develop here. She didn't know why that was – perhaps it was connected to the uncertainty surrounding Voldemort's disappearance here – but then again, perhaps the timing didn't really matter. Not when they were facing what might well be the start of the second rise of a great and terrible Dark Lord.

Whatever the truth behind it, she had to decide what she was going to do. Harry was still insistent that she should enter the Tournament, though she wasn't really sure why it mattered so much to him. Perhaps he wanted to prove some point about the worthiness of Muggle-borns to the _delightful_ Slytherin bigots. Which... well, while she didn't exactly like the idea of being used, she _did_ like the idea of showing up the pure-blood fanatics. Or maybe he thought that he could make up for years of secrecy by openly cheering her on now. Whatever the reason, he wanted her to do it, and she was seriously considering it. She was conscious of a thirst to prove herself, alone rather than as one of Harry Potter's friends – and, besides, she _did_ want the chance to examine the Goblet of Fire, and entering her name would give her a prime opportunity.

As the day approached when the candidates from Durmstrang and Beauxbatons would arrive, Hermione found that she was oddly sorry that Viktor would not be among them this time. He'd been a good friend to her during that turbulent year, a refuge from the insanity of Harry's life and the confusion of her new feelings for Ron. Their _romantic_ relationship would never have lasted even without the distance and complications, she knew that now, but if she had kept up her correspondence with him, they could have remained friends. She would have liked that. And in this world she would never even have the chance to meet him.

_If – no, __when__ – I get back, I'll write to him._

His presence might have proved to be a complication, of course, since Viktor had been the first boy she'd ever kissed – and, even if this version of him didn't know that, _she _could hardly have forgotten. She had more than enough to worry about on that front without her ex-boyfriend from a parallel dimension showing up for the year. Not that she had an actual relationship to be threatened by it. Despite what Professor Snape had said about the uncertainty of everyone's future, she had as yet made no move to act on her feelings. The thought of doing so worried her, triggered her deep fears of doing something both wrong and highly irresponsible. And she had no idea what could have motivated Snape to give her such – or any – advice about her personal life; it was strangely at odds with his usual professionalism, almost suspiciously so.

Still, Hermione was honest enough to admit, at least to herself, that the main reason that there was nothing between her and Draco was because he hadn't asked her. She might be convinced that it would be a really bad idea to get involved with him, but she was still a teenage girl, and part of her was wondering what on earth was taking him so long. It was stupid; she ought to have been relieved that his restraint was saving her from a difficult decision, but instead she felt almost offended by it.

_The heart wants what it wants_, her mother had told her once. It seemed like singularly unhelpful advice, especially coming from her very practical mother, and in a fit of sarcasm Hermione had added a rider: _and it usually wants the worst thing possible._ Perhaps she was just unlucky, but this had always seemed to be the case for her. A boy from another country. Her indifferent and emotionally stunted best friend. And now a boy from a parallel dimension – or whatever this was. If she carried on like this, next time she'd fall for a Death Eater or a serial killer or something of that kind.

She sighed, nearly going so far as to roll her eyes at herself. She was being ridiculous, and she knew it. There were so many more important things that she ought to be worrying about. This should not be a priority at all. And yet she couldn't help thinking about him, tugging at the already pulled thread and wasting valuable time. She hated herself for her weakness, her lack of resolve, the sheer stereotypical _girliness_ of it all. Lavender – the other Lavender, the one who was not her friend – would think like this, she was sure, but such thoughts did not belong in _her_ head. They just _didn't_.

"Hermione?" Of course it was Draco. She looked up and tried to smile. None of this was _his_ fault, after all. "Are you alright? You went all quiet and you've just been, I don't know, staring into space, really."

"Oh, right." She shook her head and sat up a bit straighter, trying to hide how uncomfortable she felt. "I was just thinking, I suppose."

Draco smiled just a little wickedly. "So I assumed. Knut for your thoughts?"

Hermione tossed her curly hair back, affecting a disdainful expression. "My thoughts are worth at least a Sickle." She was probably more surprised by the joke than anyone else. Draco only laughed, then pulled a silver coin out of his pocket and spun it on the surface of the small table between them. "You actually got one," she said, looking at it, her voice betraying how badly she wanted to laugh. "I was just thinking about the Tournament. Ha – I mean, someone said that I really ought to enter, and I was... wondering what I should do." It was a good excuse, and in any case it was partly true.

"Hm." Draco frowned thoughtfully; at least he was taking it seriously. "If you _want_ to do it then you definitely should. You'd be a great Champion."

"I probably wouldn't be chosen," Hermione said, trying unsuccessfully to picture herself as a Champion of anything.

"Well, then you have nothing to lose by putting your name forward, right?" Damn Draco for being so logical, and for highlighting how irrational her own thoughts on the subject were.

"I suppose not." She sighed. "It's just that... well, not entering and thinking that you wouldn't have been chosen anyway is kind of different from actually not being chosen. Does that make sense?"

Draco nodded. "Of course it does." He shifted slightly in his chair. "It's like how actual rejection hurts more than thinking you probably don't have a chance. So you don't ask even though you might end up happier if you did. That sort of thing. Right?"

"I hadn't thought of it that way, but yes, now you mention it I guess it's similar." His choice of analogy was rather telling, she thought, and it gave some sort of answer for the question of why he hadn't said anything to her yet. Though why he thought he might be rejected was a mystery to her – surely he'd noticed that she teased him more than anyone else? And that he was the only person who could incite her to make an innuendo? He was so confident and self-assured in most things that this apparent insecurity puzzled her. Although it was working in her favour, wasn't it? Or so she would have thought, but then she heard herself say, "Alright, then, let's make a deal: if you ask your question, I'll put my name in for the Tournament."

Draco looked startled. "I – what? It was hypothetical, an analogy–"

He was cut off by Lavender laughing at him. They had both nearly forgotten that there were other people around, absorbed as they were in their very interesting discussion, but now they were forcibly reminded of that fact. "You already know that she's at least twice as intelligent as you are, Draco, so I don't see how you think you can fool her. I'd recommend just doing what she says; that's usually the best thing to do."

By this point, Draco's cheeks had gone remarkably pink, and from the heat of her own face Hermione assumed that she looked rather similar. "I'm certainly not going to follow her advice with an _audience_," he said, with a pointed glare at Lavender. His mock-disapproving gaze then swept around to take in Neville, Seamus and Parvati, who were also sitting at their table, not even trying to disguise the fact that they were listening eagerly.

"Spoilsport," Parvati scoffed, but the glint in her eyes gave the lie to any appearance of disappointment.

"Though it breaks my heart to deny any pleasure of yours, Parvati, I like to at least pretend that my private life is private." Draco waited for the derisive snorts to finish before he continued. "And yes, I know that nothing is private in a boarding school. Let a man dream, can't you?"

Hermione had noticed that he was carefully avoiding looking at her throughout this little drama. If only everyone else had done the same! But no; they were all determined to stare at her, it seemed, which was almost _more_ awkward than the conversation itself. Suddenly desperate to be anywhere other than her usually comfortable common room, she drew a book out of her bag and stood up, clutching it to her chest.

"I just remembered that I need to return this book. Madam Pince will kill me if it's overdue." While this was _probably_ not literally true, the librarian did take lending books very seriously. An overdue loan was likely to result in ruptured eardrums.

She made to leave, and it was at this point that Draco stood up as well. "I'll come with you; it's far too immature in here for my liking."

This drew a roar of laughter. "Oh aye, and I'm sure that's your only reason," Seamus called out, but Draco rolled his eyes and pointedly ignored the attempt at smart commentary.

Hermione turned to look at Lavender, who smiled warmly at her. Obviously she approved – though, equally obviously, that was not going to get her out of being teased mercilessly. "If you want to come, I don't mind." A round of childish giggling this time. "Yes, very funny." She tried to scowl and glare, but a faint snort escaped her instead, and she knew that she had to leave before she lost her dignity. With one last dismissive head toss, she crossed the room to the portrait hole, still holding the book tightly.

Once they were in the corridor, Draco said, "That wasn't very subtle."

Hermione shrugged. "I wasn't really trying to be subtle."

"Ah." Draco ran his hand through his own hair in a rather self-conscious gesture. "So, uh... Hermione..."

She hated to interrupt him, especially now, but it had to be done. "Draco, I was telling the truth about the book. If you _do_ want to talk – especially if it's likely to be a _long_ talk – it might be better to wait until after I've dropped it off at the library. It _is_ rather heavy, you know." This was true; in fact, she was beginning to regret having taken it out of her bag.

Draco stared blankly at the book. "Oh. Right." He pulled at the collar of his robes, looking intensely uncomfortable.

Her smile was more of a smirk than anything else. "You're nervous."

"You're _making _me nervous," he snapped back, then looked away as if he hadn't meant to say that, as if he didn't quite dare meet her eyes. It was _strange_, as he'd never seemed all that awkward around her before – and surely he couldn't have any doubts about the answer he was going to get? Hermione's earlier words were completely true; she hadn't been subtle at all, not even at the beginning. He had to know how she felt. Didn't he?

"Am I? I never did before." The attempt at playfulness only seemed to make him more flustered.

"I know, it's just... just..." He shook his head. "Let's take your book back."

The library was almost empty when they arrived, only fifteen minutes before it closed. Madam Pince sniffed over the returned book and made a muttered comment about "cutting it a bit fine", but Hermione ignored her. Over the years, she had heard more or less every rant and lecture in Madam Pince's arsenal, many of them more than once. And besides, it was hard to care about an almost-late book – which was not at all the same thing as a late book – when she had something far more interesting to think about. Namely, whether Draco would explode from embarrassment before he could ask her the question she suspected that he wanted to ask.

She didn't have long to wait. As soon as Madam Pince had wound down her talk about the importance of punctuality, they left the library with a shared sigh of relief. The corridor outside was as deserted as anywhere in Hogwarts ever was, silent but for the whispering of the portraits and the quiet hum of student chatter filtering in from the rest of the school. It was the closest they were going to get privacy, short of ducking into a broom cupboard, which Hermione absolutely refused even to consider.

"So, that's the book dealt with," she said, a questioning note in her voice.

"Right." Draco swallowed audibly, and Hermione was about to tell him how silly he was being when the words tumbled out of him. "You've been... different, ever since we came back from the summer holiday."

Hermione's heart skipped a beat, then made up for it by thudding heavily in her ears. "Wh – what?" Of all the things she'd expected him to say, that hadn't even been on the list.

He scowled, though he seemed more annoyed with himself than with her. "God, I'm terrible at this. I mean, you're still _you_, obviously, but it feels like something's changed. I don't know what, exactly, but I... no. There's no way to finish that sentence without offending you, is there? All I wanted to say is that I hadn't really looked at you before, you know? Not properly. Or... maybe I had, but I hadn't really thought about you. Not in _that_ way. But now it's like... like you're all I can think about. Well, I mean, not literally, of course. Sod it all, that's such a cliché–"

"Draco." Relief and elation coursed through her body, warming her blood.

"Yes?"

"Shut up."

Before Draco had time to do any more than look puzzled and slightly hurt, Hermione moved closer to him and reached up to touch his face. He let out a long, shaky breath and looked down at her, eyes full of wonder and disbelief – and she took the opportunity to slide her other hand up to the back of his head and gently guide his lips to meet hers.

She could feel his surprise at the action, but he was definitely willing to go along with it. Somehow his arms were around her, and the hand that she had rested on his flushed cheek was now on his hip. The kiss deepened. His teeth grazed her lip, his tongue brushed against hers and sent a shiver through her body. She pressed against him, and his arms tightened around her, pulling her closer. Hermione was fairly sure that she wasn't getting enough air, but it didn't seem to matter. Breathing was overrated. His lips were fierce and demanding on hers, their bodies were melded together, and she could think of nothing else but what was happening and how it made her feel. It was beautiful, _glorious_, and she suddenly understood exactly why on her rounds as a Prefect she was always catching couples doing exactly the same thing.

When they finally surfaced for air, Hermione asked, a little smugly: "Was that what you were trying to say?"

Draco laughed rather shakily. "Yeah. Pretty much that, exactly." He was still looking at her with wide eyes, as though he was afraid that she might disappear if he blinked. "Trust you to know when to use a practical demonstration instead of words."

Hermione snorted. "I'm not really any better at talking about my feelings than you are." She gave a soft, rather knowing smile. "And anyway, sometimes a demonstration is more fun."

"That is a very good point," he said, before leaning forward in an obvious attempt to draw her into a repeat performance. With great reluctance, Hermione forced herself to put a hand on his chest and take a slight step back.

"I... Well, we can't have two _Prefects_ caught kissing in a corridor, can we?" It sounded stupid even to her own ears.

Draco rolled his eyes at this, but his face relaxed from a frown into a rueful smile. "Yep, definitely still the same Hermione." He stepped back – and although this was what she'd _wanted_ him to do, she still felt an irrational stab of disappointment. Then he grinned, a sudden, devilish, almost _hungry_ grin that made her breath catch in her throat. "So... should we find some place that _isn't_ a corridor, then?"

She didn't even have to think twice.

* * *

When they did finally return to the common room – a few minutes before curfew, once again staying _just_ the right side of the rules – they were treated to a circle of near-identical smirks and raised eyebrows. Lavender made a clicking noise with her tongue and, in a patently insincere voice, said, "Well, returning that book took an _awfully_ long time, didn't it?"

"We both know you're not stupid, Lavender." They were not words she would ever have imagined saying only six weeks ago, but now they seemed all too natural. "It was never really about the book."

Lavender smirked. "Oh, wasn't it? You do surprise me, Hermione." She stretched out her limbs in a rather exaggerated fashion. "I am _so_ tired all of a sudden. Perhaps we should go up to our dorm room?" There was a gleam in her eyes that told Hermione exactly what her friend meant by that. Somehow she doubted that it would be all that restful for her. In this world or any other, Lavender was still an incorrigible gossip.

"I should probably finish this History essay before I even think about going to bed," she said, trying to sound as apologetic as possible. At least _this_ Lavender understood that schoolwork had to come first.

True to form, she offered, "I could help you with it, if you want. I've already done mine." There was a very faint trace of smugness in her voice; it was rare for her to be more organised than Hermione in _anything_.

Hermione reached into her bag, which was exactly where she'd left it, and pulled out a tightly wound scroll of parchment. "It's mostly done, but it'd be good to get a second opinion on a couple of passages." She began to unroll the essay, and then looked up at her friend. "Thanks, Lavender. I'll try to get it done quickly so you get a chance to interrogate me before you fall asleep."

"Interrogate?" Lavender's eyes were wide with mock-innocence. "I would never."

"Of course not."

Lavender then rather spoiled the effect by grinning. "Oh, I'm sure you _want_ to tell me all about it anyway." She opened her History of Magic textbook to a heavily annotated page. "Anyway, here – I found this section really useful."

At this point, Seamus laughed and reached over to thump Draco on the back. "Let's leave these two to be boring," he said, winking at the girls in an attempt to take the sting out of the insult. "And _you_ can tell _me_ all about it."

Draco snorted but allowed himself to be led away from the table. As the two boys left, Hermione heard him say, in a mock-refined tone, "Now, Seamus, you _know_ a gentleman should never kiss and tell." She wanted to groan out loud at the knowing look on Lavender's face; she was _definitely_ in for a grilling now. Draco could be very annoying when he wanted to be.

And _that_ thought reminded her that, according to the deal she'd made earlier, she now had to enter the Triwizard Tournament. Harry would be pleased. She wasn't sure whether _she _was pleased, though. Still, it was only a matter of putting her name into the magical Goblet. And she probably wouldn't be chosen anyway. So, really, what was there to worry about?


	10. Scenes From A Memory

**Author's Notes:** The Goblet of Fire finally makes an appearance! I don't think the way it works is ever actually explained, so I've come up with some theories of my own. (And yes, Hermione does reference _Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade_ in the section about the Goblet.)

Chapter 11 will be posted on **5****th**** September** as per the normal schedule.

* * *

**10\. Scenes From A Memory**

Just over two weeks later, the day of her decision – the day when the candidates from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang would arrive – was upon her. The last class of the day had been cancelled in honour of their guests, and most of the other Gryffindors had already left the common room to go outside, to gossip and watch the skies. Even the few stragglers were starting to filter out of the room now – but Hermione found herself strangely reluctant to join them. She was in the middle of writing an essay for Defence, but that was more of an _excuse_ not to leave on time than an actual_ reason_.

"We're going to be late, Hermione." Her name in that tone of voice made her shiver slightly, as it always did, but now really wasn't the time.

She scowled at Draco, who was leaning against a wall and looking down at her with an amused glint in his eye. "It'll be fine," she insisted. "I'm not going to be late. When am I ever late for anything?"

"There was that one Potions class..." Draco grinned and raised an eyebrow in her direction.

"I wasn't _late_, even then," Hermione replied, acidly. "But if you're going to bother me until I agree to come down to the entrance hall, then fine, I will. God knows, I'm sure I'll have ever so much time later to finish this essay." Not for the first time, she wondered how a Triwizard Champion was supposed to keep on top of their schoolwork throughout the tournament. Perhaps it would be better if she didn't enter... but she had promised Draco, and she knew that she would find it very difficult to lie to him about it.

"That's the spirit," he said, now, deliberately missing her attempt at sarcasm. "Well, sort of, anyway. Let's go and see what the competition looks like. I would've thought that you'd be interested."

Hermione sighed and rubbed her eyes. She hadn't been getting enough sleep lately, and she still felt as if she was only just managing to get everything done. Having a boyfriend was a lot more time-consuming than she'd expected it to be. Not that she intended to give him up. "I... yeah, sorry, Draco. I'm being too uptight about work again, aren't I?"

"Yup," he said, brightly, flashing her a rather lopsided grin that made her wish that there was no one else in the common room at all. "But then again, I think if you _weren't _obsessing over your work, it'd be a sign of the end times. It's just who you are. We all know that." Here he smirked. "Of course, that means it's my job to make sure that you take breaks every now and again."

"Oh, is that the excuse you're using now?" Hermione replied, archly. Draco snorted, his expression caught somewhere between smug and embarrassed. Shaking her head slightly, she dried the ink from her quill and laid it down on the desk. "Alright, I'll let you drag me off to watch the other schools arrive." A mischievous impulse made her add: "Though you _do_ have much better ways of distracting me from my work."

Draco almost seemed to preen at this comment, looking more like Sirius than he ever had before. "Well, I suppose we can make time for that later..."

Hermione ruthlessly ignored the images this conjured up in her traitorous mind, and the warm breathless anticipation that accompanied them. Now was not the time. She _wanted_... but there was no helping that. "You're going to be the death of me," she said, trying to sound annoyed and failing miserably. She sighed and stood up. "Shall we go, then?"

Most of the school was already lined up outside by the time they reached the main doors, but then Hermione had been expecting that. Draco looked around at all of the people and made a disapproving _tsk_ noise, then elbowed her in the ribs and more or less marched her over to where the other sixth year Gryffindors were standing. From the look on her face, Lavender was having trouble keeping herself from laughing. She wasn't the only one.

"I should've known you'd manage to get her out of there," Seamus said, his face cracking into a grin.

"You really _should_ know, by now." Draco was far more pleased with himself than he had any right to be.

Hermione cleared her throat and scowled at both of them. "I _am_ standing right here, you know." Draco had the decency to look at least a little ashamed, but Seamus laughed, thoroughly unrepentant.

Lavender rolled her eyes. "Honestly, boys, I think we can all see why Hermione is the best student in our year. Probably in the school, even." She reached over and squeezed Hermione's arm. "We can work on finishing those Defence essays later. In the dorm, if the common room is too noisy and full of distractions." She shot a mild glare at Draco, apparently classifying him as a distraction – which, to be fair, was exactly what he was sometimes.

"Thanks, Lavender." Hermione smiled at her friend, genuinely grateful for the support. Despite all of the time she spent with Draco, her marks actually seemed to have gone _up_ since she'd come here and acquired such a conscientious study partner. "I should've thought about it and realised that you'd help, but you know how I can get..."

"Fixated?" Lavender offered, smiling gently. "Yeah, I know. I'm the same. It's like you just can't think sensibly at all until you've finished the – oh! Look at that!" She pointed up at the sky, and everyone around her looked up to see what it was, even Hermione, who already knew exactly what she'd see. From her point of view, this had happened two years ago; it was downright surreal to be experiencing the same thing all over again. Although... well, somehow it just wasn't quite the same. Perhaps it was her irreverent friends, or the fact that she hadn't been pulled out of a lesson – or just that she _had_ gone through it all before – but this time around everything felt more relaxed, less _momentous_.

Still, as the dark shape in the sky over the Forbidden Forest resolved itself into the giant horse-drawn carriage, and a chorus of breathless whispers rippled through the crowd of students, she felt a thrill of excitement that she couldn't suppress. And, really, the elephant-sized palomino winged horses were hardly any less impressive for the fact that she'd seen them once before – and nor, for that matter, was Madame Maxime.

"I didn't know Hagrid had a sister," Dean said, as the Headmistress of Beauxbatons climbed out of the blue carriage. He punctuated his sentence with a low whistle, which made Professor McGonagall glare and hiss an admonition at him. The teachers were just as nervous about the visitors as they had been the last time, Hermione realised; she hadn't noticed this before now, perhaps because she had been far too busy to think about it.

"Don't be silly, Dean; that's the Headmistress of Beauxbatons. She's _French_." Given the relationship that had developed between Hagrid and Madame Maxime in her own timeline, the idea of them being related was actually rather disgusting to Hermione. She realised that she might have spoken a little harshly, though, and quickly added, "Can you honestly imagine _Hagrid_ knowing how to speak French?"

Dean snorted, undaunted as ever by Professor McGonagall's disapproval. "Nah, not really. Good point. Still... never seen a woman that big before. She could crush a man, I bet."

"Only if he really annoyed her." Hermione exchanged an amused look with Lavender, who obligingly added:

"And, really, _any_ woman can do that if she puts her mind to it." She smiled wickedly. Seamus shifted rather nervously.

Professor McGonagall shot the sixth years another blistering pointed glare. Discretion being the better part of valour, they wisely fell silent – or, at least, they tried to. It worked for a couple of minutes, and then:

"Those horses drink single-malt whiskey? My da would love them." Seamus paused to consider this, head on one side, then snorted. "Actually, maybe he'd hate having to share with them. I bet those big buggers can drink a lot."

"They're Abraxans," Hermione said, automatically, the habit of reciting any relevant facts she knew proving itself too ingrained to resist. "Whiskey is the only thing they can drink. So you can tell that they're magical creatures; if they weren't, they'd just be drunk all the time." She nearly giggled at the thought of giant drunken horses lolling around in a paddock. Seamus was not quite so restrained and let out a slightly manic-sounding hiccup, then flushed red to the roots of his hair when everyone in the nearby rows turned to look at him. At least he hadn't drawn another McGonagall glare.

After the spectacle of the winged horses – and the giantess headmistress – the Beauxbatons students were hardly all that interesting by comparison. Without Fleur and her part-Veela appeal, there was nothing very dazzling about the tired young people hauling themselves out of the powder-blue carriage. They barely seemed to look at the splendour of Hogwarts, but this time around Hermione recognised that this was because they were cold and exhausted, not due to any sort of snobbery. She wondered what sort of preparation Madame Maxime had put her potential Champions through, and why nothing of the kind had been offered at Hogwarts.

Even though she was seventeen and theoretically the equal of these French students, looking at them made her feel like the same gauche fourth year she had once been. Why had she even imagined that she could compete? Her self-doubt must have shown on her face, because Draco's arm slid around her shoulders, squeezing her gently in an encouraging hug. "No match for you, any of them," he whispered in her ear, raising pleasant tingles in her body that very effectively took her mind off the Triwizard Tournament.

"If you say so," she murmured, watching as the Beauxbatons delegation filed into the Great Hall. Once they were gone, she looked around with narrowed eyes, putting a little distance between herself and Draco for the sake of her sanity. "I wonder how Durmstrang will manage to upstage that arrival."

She already knew what they would do, of course, but when the water of the Black Lake began to seethe and boil, she felt just as awed as she had done the first time she had seen it. The mast of a ship appeared slowly and dramatically, and it seemed that every Hogwarts student was holding his or her breath. Then the ship was before them, floating placidly on the surface of the lake – and the amazed silence was broken by everyone trying to speak at once.

"An underwater pirate ship," Neville said, in a hushed voice. "Yeah, that'll do it."

* * *

The feast seemed to pass by in a blur. Hermione barely noticed the food she ate or the speeches she was supposed to be listening to. All she could think of was the Goblet of Fire, now unveiled and safe to talk about, soon to be standing in the Entrance Hall awaiting their entries. She was numb and frozen, dreading approaching the magical artefact, but knowing that she had to. Even if she had never told Draco that she would enter, she probably would have done so anyway, just to assuage her curiosity about how the Goblet worked. It would be necessary to know, especially if the same plot was in play here as had been in her fourth year.

Though, if she was honest with herself, she was more afraid of the judgement of the Goblet of Fire than she was of the possible return of Voldemort. She dug her fork savagely into a small portion of baklava and wondered how a Gryffindor could be such a coward.

"I think it's already dead, Hermione." Draco's voice tickled her ear and made her jump. She turned towards him and tried to scowl, only to find that she couldn't. "Nervous?" he asked now, his smile too warm for her to resent his interference.

She sighed. "Yeah. I mean, I was just thinking... I don't know."

Draco moved one hand to rest gently on her thigh. Hermione nearly dropped her fork. "You know, you don't have to enter if you really don't want to. If the idea scares you then I'd never make you do it, and nor should anyone else." He looked almost indignant, as if he suspected that there were others who were encouraging her to put her name into the Goblet. Which, of course, was true; it was not only Harry, who would never have been so polite or considerate as to say that she didn't have to do what he wanted her to do, but also Professor Snape, Sirius – even her own conscience was against her.

Resolve hardened within her. "I think... I think I have to _know_," she said, quietly but firmly. Draco nodded and smiled, and she knew that, despite his understanding words, he was pleased by her decision. Was it only because he wanted her to live up to her potential, or was there...? Her mind blanked abruptly as his hand crept a little further up her thigh, not quite indecent but definitely tending that way. She opened her mouth to say something – she wasn't sure what – but when she saw the _look_ in his eyes she just couldn't. It was... a strange shiver ran up her spine, and she wondered when it had become quite so warm in the Great Hall. "I..." Her voice rasped and trembled in her throat. "I had better finish that essay tonight, so I'll put my name in the Goblet before breakfast tomorrow." The words came out too fast. Such a simple touch had flustered her beyond all reason. What was wrong with her?

Draco gave a soft laugh, and the low-pitched sound vibrated through her in a way that was disconcerting but definitely not unpleasant. "You had better finish your dessert before you leave," he said, mildly, trailing his fingers just a fraction higher – Hermione stopped breathing for a moment – before removing his hand and applying himself to the remains of his own dinner.

She tried to glare at him but couldn't quite muster the force for it. "I feel a bit... well, I'm not hungry anymore," she managed to say.

From across the table, Lavender piped up. "Oh, does that mean you're ready to go work on Snape's essay now?"

"Yes. Definitely." She had to go _somewhere_ to regain the composure that had mysteriously deserted her. And that essay _did_ need to be finished.

"Alright, let's go get started on that now, while this lot are still stuffing their faces in here." Lavender swung herself off the bench and began to walk towards the doors. Hermione stood and followed, grateful for the chance to get out of the Hall – but, before she could feel too relieved about her escape, Lavender treated her to a knowing smirk that reminded her of her friend's tendency to gossip. Perhaps it would have been safer to stay, but there was no helping that now. "So, what was Draco saying to get you all stirred up?"

For all her many good qualities, Lavender simply did not understand that some things were none of her business. On the other hand, if she had been _stirred up_, that was nothing to do with what Draco had been _saying_. Her cheeks flushed pink, and she felt that strange warmth run through her body at the memory. It wasn't so much that he'd touched her – no, it was how that had made her feel, the... the _desires_ it had awakened. Two weeks ago she would not have believed it possible that she would even think of such things. She had kissed Viktor, of course, and she had _wanted_ to kiss Ron, but she had seldom if ever wanted to do anything more than that. That she now did was something she found both thrilling and terrifying.

It was not until Lavender laughed and said, "So, too juicy for you to want to tell me?" that Hermione remembered the question.

"Oh! No, no... I was thinking of something else." Hopefully her face was not actually about to catch fire. "No, we were just talking about the Goblet of Fire and the Triwizard Tournament, nothing exciting." Or, at least, not exciting in the way that Lavender was insinuating.

"Oh, right." To her credit, Lavender stopped smirking and dropped all suggestion of mockery or teasing from her manner at the introduction of a more serious subject. "So, are you going to enter? Should we wait around for the Goblet to be set up?"

Hermione shook her head. "I want to get my Defence essay finished. I'll put my name in the Goblet before breakfast tomorrow."

"If that's what you want." Lavender reached over and squeezed her arm. "You'll be the best Champion Hogwarts has ever seen, we all know it." Then, before Hermione had time to be touched by this glowing compliment, Lavender drew her closer and murmured, "So, whatever were you thinking that made you go brick red like that?"

"Nothing important," Hermione said, wishing Lavender was capable of taking hints and leaving well enough alone.

"Aw, but Hermione, don't I always tell you all about Seamus and me?" Lavender wasn't pouting, but that was only because she knew that it wasn't a good look for her.

Hermione shook her head. "And do I not always beg you _not _to tell me those things?" She was a little exasperated, but somehow also found herself trying not to laugh. This was just how Lavender was, and she liked the other girl too much to be offended by her silliness.

"I know, I know." Lavender sighed and tossed her hair back. "Alright, if you're going to be like that, let's go get this essay done." She smiled, and Hermione thought that the drawbacks of her friendship with Lavender were more than compensated for by the advantages. It was still refreshing for her, to find herself so well understood.

"I thought you'd never ask," she said, with a little half-smile, and the two studious Gryffindors made their way towards their Tower, arm in arm as they climbed the many flights of stairs on the way. The common room was silent and still, which came as no surprise to either of them, and Hermione's work was still laid out at their usual table, exactly where she'd left it. She settled into her seat and picked up her quill. There was no way of knowing how long it would be before the rest of the chattering horde descended on the common room, and she intended to make the most of it.

Her furious determination not to think about anything but Defence Against the Dark Arts led to the essay being finished much sooner than she'd expected. Lavender was still bent over her own steadily growing roll of parchment, caught up in the finer points of basic curse detection and removal – so, rather than disturb her, Hermione decided that it was actually the perfect time to go downstairs and put her name into the Goblet of Fire. It was still early enough to walk the halls without getting into trouble, but hopefully late enough that no one else would be there. As long as she was alone, she could take the chance to examine the Goblet in detail, without observation or interference.

She told Lavender where she was going – although her friend was absorbed in her work and probably didn't hear a word she said – and slipped away out of the now noisy and crowded common room. The corridors were peaceful at that time of night, and she was grateful for it; much as she liked being in Gryffindor, there were times when the atmosphere threatened to overwhelm her. And tonight, with the excitement of the Tournament practically buzzing in the air, was definitely one of those times.

The Entrance Hall was cool and quiet. None of the Durmstrang or Beauxbatons students were anywhere to be seen. Even Filch had found somewhere else to be. The Goblet of Fire stood alone in the centre of the Hall, set upon a stool and guarded only by the Age Line. Her mouth was suddenly dry, and she swallowed heavily as she approached. Aside from the uncanny blue flames, it was a rather plain object, and it was much smaller than she'd thought it would be. It reminded her of a film she'd seen once, of a very ordinary drinking cup that had, in fact, been the True Holy Grail. Looking at it, Hermione was more than usually conscious of her fear of being judged and found wanting. True, she wouldn't crumble to dust if she failed, but...

She mustered all of her courage and stepped towards the Age Line, her hand reaching inside her robe for parchment and quill.

The door to the Great Hall opened just before she reached the Goblet. Surprised by the sudden movement, Hermione spun around to see who it was, her heart racing with panicked adrenaline as if she'd been caught in the act of breaking a school rule. She didn't want an audience, not for this, but she could think of no polite way to tell the interloper to go away. And then she noticed who it was – a tall, elegant man with a rather sheepish expression on his dark handsome face. She let out a gasp. It was Kingsley Shacklebolt!

Hermione opened her mouth to say something – but then remembered at the last moment that it would probably be a bad idea. She might very well not even know the man in this reality, and she couldn't afford to give herself away so foolishly. "I... I'm sorry. You startled me." Not her best conversation opener, but at least it was something that was safe to say.

Kingsley laughed, a low rumbling sound. "I saw. I should be the one to apologise." He gestured towards the Goblet. "You're entering the Tournament?" Luckily, his conversation seemed hardly any more scintillating than her own.

She smiled. "Yes, I was going to. It's slightly nerve-wracking, though."

"I can imagine." He sighed. "Still, I might trade my _bored out of my wits _for your _nerve-wracking_. Accompanying the Minister everywhere definitely has its drawbacks, even if it _does_ sound impressive to be part of his personal security detail." It was not until Kingsley said this that Hermione recalled seeing Minister Fudge at the head table during dinner. Had he attended the feast in her own world? She rather thought not. A strange point of difference, but not one she had any idea how to account for.

"Somehow it doesn't surprise me that following Minister Fudge around might end up being rather boring," she said, and Kingsley made a sound that was halfway between a laugh and a cough.

"Smart girl," was his unmistakeably amused reply. Then: "I'm Kingsley Shacklebolt, by the way. I'm an Auror, and now also personal bodyguard to the Minister. It was supposed to be a promotion." He looked dubious.

"Hermione Granger," she replied. "Sixth year Gryffindor." She hesitated, then said, "I... it's silly, I know, but would you mind...?"

"You don't want anyone to watch?" Kingsley was as quick-witted as ever.

"No, not really." She shifted awkwardly from one foot to the other. "I don't want to be rude, though."

He smiled. "Don't worry about It," he said, good-humouredly. "I'm supposed to be standing guard over the meeting in the back room, anyway. I just wanted a closer look at the Goblet... but I suppose I should at least try to take my job seriously. More seriously than Fudge takes his, at any rate."

Hermione snorted at this. Kingsley had never had a very high opinion of Fudge. "Thank you," she said, softly, to which the big Auror only nodded and disappeared back through the door into the Great Hall.

Once she was sure that he had gone, Hermione walked right up to the Goblet of Fire and looked inside, staring into the dancing blue flames. Cautiously, she waved a hand through the fire, and found that it didn't burn her. It wasn't hot at all. But then, why should it be? It wasn't a natural fire; it was pure magic. How exactly it worked, she couldn't tell. There had been no mention of noting down the name of her school along with her entry, so she had to assume that it would know that, just as it could apparently divine her suitability to compete.

As she peered into the flames, she noticed something: there was a band of Runes engraved just inside the lip of the Goblet. Her heart quickened with excitement. This was something that could shed some light on the inner workings of the artefact! She drew out her quill and parchment, and quickly copied down the symbols, walking around the Goblet several times to ensure that she had them all, and in the correct order. Once she had finished, she put the sketch away inside her robes – and then, almost as an afterthought, she wrote her name on a scrap of parchment and dropped it into the fire.


	11. In A Bolt of Lightning

**Author's Notes:** And now for the moment we've all been waiting for – the selection of the Champions! I'm not sure that the events of this chapter will come as a great surprise to anyone, but I hope it will at least be enjoyable. I'm quite pleased with the little Draco/Hermione scene near the beginning. I think they might be a little _too_ cute, but I'm sort of okay with that.

Chapter 18 is so nearly finished that it's ridiculous, but it got late so I decided to prepare and post this before going back to it. Which means I've nearly caught up to where I should be, and there's nothing to stop me posting Chapter 12 on 19th September as per the schedule.

I should also just note that I do really enjoy getting your reviews! I can't really _answer_ most of them, because the things you want to know will be answered in the story in time. I am glad to know that the things my readers are curious about are the same things that I'm interested in telling you about.

* * *

**11\. In A Bolt of Lightning**

Hermione did not sleep well that night. Her thoughts were full of the Triwizard Tournament, and the nerves and uncertainty threatened to keep her awake all night. And then, when she did manage to fall asleep, her dreams were full of dragons and drowning, fire and pain and the shame of failure. She lost count of the amount of times she woke from a fitful sleep, sweating and panting and rigid with fear. It wasn't encouraging. If she was chosen as the Hogwarts Champion, how many more such miserable nights would she have to suffer through? And what was wrong with her that the nightmares didn't scare her nearly as much as the idea of _not_ being chosen?

Still, she thought, as she stared up at the canopy of her scarlet four-poster, it wasn't anything she didn't already know about herself. She had a deep, burning need to prove her worth, and she was terrified of rejection and failure. Whether she actually wanted to compete in the Tournament or not, it would be an insult to her pride were someone else chosen instead. Hermione scowled at the darkness. For such an intelligent and logical person, she was capable of some truly stupid and irrational behaviour.

At five-thirty, she finally abandoned her attempt at restful sleep, instead getting out of bed and making her way down the stairs into the common room. To her complete lack of surprise, it was empty; most Gryffindors would never even think of rising so early unless they had a Quidditch practice to attend or some sort of prank to play. Since she didn't really want to talk to anyone about her sleeping difficulties, it was probably for the best that she was alone. And yet... the shadows shifted in the pre-dawn light, looking almost threatening, and she wished that someone else was with her.

_I'm not __scared_, she told herself, firmly. _Just lonely and uneasy._

At least she had her books with her; studying would be the perfect distraction. She reached into her schoolbag – but, instead of a textbook, she pulled out the now rather battered novel that Draco had encouraged her to buy the month before. It was rude of her, she knew, but she had forgotten all about the book after she had put it into her bag. She certainly hadn't made any real effort to read it – and Draco hadn't asked or nagged her about it once, which surprised her now that she came to think about it. The only person who usually recommended books to her was her mother, who always insisted on having a discussion about the book as soon as Hermione had finished it.

Perhaps she ought to reward his patience and forbearance. And, besides, the book did look rather interesting. Hermione curled up in one of the bright red armchairs near the still flickering fire, cracked open the book and began to read.

An hour later she was ten chapters in, and she had to admit that it was better than most of the other novels she'd ever tried to read. It was silly and not entirely consistent, but she liked the writing style, the dialogue was sharp and witty, and the protagonist was likeable and interesting. Yes, she'd definitely seen worse. She smiled to herself and turned the next page. Improbable or not, the plot was actually rather gripping.

"I was hoping that you'd get around to reading it eventually," said a soft voice, and she looked up to see Draco standing between her and the fire. It was twenty-five to seven and he was already fully dressed and ready to go. Part of Hermione thought that this was a shame; it would have been nice to see him in pyjamas or a dressing gown... something appropriate to the hour. Her mind took a detour into wondering about what exactly Draco wore in bed. Did he wear pyjamas, as her boys had done – or perhaps even less than that? Did he wear anything at all?

She coughed, slightly alarmed by the brazenness of her own thoughts, and hoped that she wasn't blushing. "I did always mean to," she said, stretching the truth just a little. After all, forgetting about the book wasn't the same as not intending to read it. "I'm enjoying it so far," she added, quickly. "I like Idina. She reminds me of Lavender."

"Does she?" Draco smiled at her. "She reminds _me_ of you."

Hermione wasn't sure what to make of that comment. Idina wasn't all that much like her; she was very intelligent and made no secret of the fact, that was true, but there was a levity about her that Hermione knew very well _she_ did not possess. "Really?" she asked, her incredulity obvious from her tone. "Is that how you see me, then?"

"Of course," Draco replied, promptly. "Why do you think I wanted you to read it? I thought you'd like a book where the main character is so much like you." He frowned slightly. "I didn't realise that you wouldn't recognise yourself in her. But really, Hermione: she's smart, brave, funny, kind and just a bit stubborn." His eyes glinted in amusement, which she would have found infuriating if his shameless compliments hadn't flustered her so. "Doesn't that remind you of anyone? If it doesn't, you must have a sadly inaccurate picture of yourself."

Her only response was to shrug and smile. It was Draco's picture of her that was inaccurate, as she knew only too well, but she had no real desire to correct him. If he wanted to think that she was all of those things, then far be it from her to try to change his mind. She would have _liked_ to have been more like Idina, the bright-eyed heroine, but she was far from convinced that she actually was. Still, even though she did not see the resemblance between them as particularly close, it _was_ nice to read a book where an intelligent woman was the main character, and where very little mention was made of her appearance. To a girl like Hermione, who was both very clever and not especially pretty, it was refreshing.

"I'm sorry," Draco said, now, and Hermione realised that she had been silent for at least two minutes. His voice was soft, tainted by disappointment and self-reproach. "I didn't mean to disturb you."

"You aren't disturbing me," Hermione assured him, quickly. "You just made me think, that's all."

"Good," Draco said, with a definite air of self-satisfaction. "If that means you're going to like yourself more – or even, miracle of miracles, accept my compliments more readily – then I'll be happy with what I've done here."

"I... do you think that I don't like myself?" Hermione had never really thought of herself that way before. It didn't seem to fit very well with her status, long since accepted, as a 'know-it-all'.

"Not nearly as much as you ought to." Draco spoke bluntly but not unkindly. "I mean, you obviously know exactly how clever you are – but I'm not sure that you see anything _else_ good about yourself. Which... I mean..." He trailed off with a huff of frustration. "I'm not all that good at explaining these things," he said, apologetically. "It's just that you don't seem to see that there are lots of other reasons for someone to l-like you, and I wish you did." He bit his lip and looked at the floor for a moment, as if collecting his thoughts. When he raised his eyes again, there was an altogether different expression in them, one that sent a familiar rush of warmth through Hermione's body.

In a rather halting voice, she began, "You..."

Draco cut her off, perhaps guessing from her hesitancy that she didn't really know what she wanted to say anyway. "You know, it's easy to _say_ things," he said, moving closer to her chair, a faint wry smile on his face. "And... well, I think it'll be at least twenty minutes before anyone else joins us down here, don't you?" He put his hands on the arms of her chair and leant towards her. Hermione's mouth had gone dry. She swallowed audibly, and watched as Draco's smile spread into a beautifully devilish grin.

"I... yes, I suppose so," she said, rather breathlessly.

"Time enough to see how convincing I can be," Draco murmured, drawing still closer and kneeling on her chair, his knees on either side of her thighs. One of his hands slipped inside her loosely fastened robe to rest at her waist, while the other moved to cup her chin and tilt her face up towards him. He hesitated for just a moment before lowering his lips to meet hers, gently at first, slowly building to an electrifying passion that she could hardly believe _she_ had inspired. Hermione trembled just a little as his body pressed against hers, her mind lost to everything except sensation. The book slipped from her suddenly nerveless fingers and landed on the floor, for the moment quite forgotten.

* * *

Hermione had to admit that Draco's methods of distraction were very effective; it took her a while to regain her composure enough to worry about the Goblet of Fire, and by the time she did, her first class of the day was about to begin. Fortunately for her state of mind, it was a Thursday, and Thursday was one of her busiest days, if not _the_ busiest. If she applied herself to her lessons – and, being Hermione, she had no intention of doing anything else – she would have precious little time left over to fret.

As before, the Goblet remained in the Entrance Hall for the entire day – and, as before, several underage students were sent to the infirmary with long white beards of mysterious origin. In spite of her disapproval, Hermione found this funny; Professor Dumbledore might have a childish sense of humour, but it was matched by a knack for finding the most appropriate punishment for a transgression. That the beards looked suspiciously like the Headmaster's own only made it better, in her opinion.

When the lunch hour rolled around, Hermione ate as quickly as safety would allow – so, still slower than her Ron ever had – and then bolted off to Professor Snape's office with only a mumbled excuse to explain her behaviour. He was there when she arrived, eating a sandwich while scrawling notes in red ink all over a piece of parchment that presumably contained some unfortunate soul's attempt at a Defence Against the Dark Arts essay. In a way, it was comforting to see that Professor Snape was not an _entirely_ different person here.

Hermione knocked on the open door. Professor Snape looked up, smiled – thus proving that he bore only a very superficial resemblance to his counterpart – and invited her into his office. She reached into her robes and pulled out the parchment containing the Runes copied from the inner rim of the Goblet of Fire, and, as soon as she was close enough, held them out for him to take. The Professor obliged, and placed that parchment over the poor abused essay without a second thought, frowning at the puzzle it presented.

"These are from the Goblet, I presume?" he asked, shrewdly, tracing the outline of one of the Runes with his forefinger.

Hermione snorted. He was almost _too _sharp. "Indeed. Don't tell me you already thought to copy them down?" That was the main danger in working with people who were just as intelligent as she – as the old saying goes, great minds do have a habit of thinking alike.

"No, I did not," Professor Snape was already making notations under the symbols, working from memory, a furrow in his brow the only sign of quite how hard he was having to think. "I had no idea that Runes were part of the Goblet's magic at all. That is interesting, very interesting."

"I saw them and thought that they had to be the easiest part of the Goblet's enchantments to alter," Hermione said, watching Professor Snape's progress with the Runes in something like awe. "Harry – _my_ Harry, that is – told me that the false Moody talked about a 'really strong Confundus charm' when it became clear that the Goblet had been manipulated, but since he was lying about everything else, I think we can safely assume that wasn't true either. I can't see how that would even _work_."

Professor Snape looked up from the Runes for long enough to say, "Anything that has a passable imitation of a mind can be Confunded, of course. But I don't know that such a specific effect could be achieved with that charm, however strong the caster."

"That's what I thought." Hermione narrowed her eyes as she tried to follow the Rune pattern – and Snape's annotations – upside down. After a moment's reflection, she tapped the page just above one particular symbol. "It would be fairly easy to scramble the meaning of that one completely, but I'm almost sure something else would have to be altered as well." She looked up, questioningly, and Professor Snape nodded.

"Very good, Miss Granger; that is one of them. Adding a line to that Rune like _so_" – his quill flicked a line of red along the edge of the indicated Rune – "changes the meaning from _closed_ to _unclear_, which is necessary to allow any subsequent changes to the function of the Goblet. Then change _this _one like _so_ and _that_ one becomes longer here..." Snape deftly inked in the proposed changes. "Yes. That sets the number of candidates to four, and sets the identification parameter for the fourth school."

"That did puzzle me," Hermione said now. When Professor Snape did not immediately understand her, she explained, "I didn't have to write the school I belong to on my entry. In fact, all it has is my name. How can it tell anything about me? I suppose there are echoes of my magic in the parchment, but is my school really an intrinsic quality of my magic?"

"Well... and this is in part the function of the belt of Runes _here_ that, taken together, mean _clarity of vision_ and _inner sight_. The Goblet reads your thoughts and wishes at the time of submitting your name, as well as your capabilities. It is... not all that dissimilar to the Sorting Hat, in a way – not that I have any understanding of how that works, either. I _am_ fairly sure that these Runes alone cannot account for all of the Goblet's functionality; some truly impressive magic must have been built into it by some other means."

"Perhaps if Harry's name is drawn out this evening, Sirius can petition to study the Goblet? I mean, he _is_ an Unspeakable." Hermione realised that her thoughts had once again strayed from what was strictly relevant, though it seemed that Snape's had also. "It would be interesting to know how Barty Crouch, if it _is_ him again this time around, would have found an opportunity to manipulate the Goblet. I saw an Auror in the Entrance Hall when I went down there last night."

"One of the Minister's bodyguards, I would assume."

"Yes, that's what he said he was." Hermione found herself considering Kingsley's appearance with a calm rationality that had eluded her the night before. "It... well, it makes me wonder, that's all. Do certain circles of the Ministry know that something might go wrong with this Tournament?"

Professor Snape blinked. "You did tell Sirius," he pointed out.

Hermione was still surprised. Of course, she _had_ told Sirius of her suspicions, but she had not thought that telling an Unspeakable really counted as alerting the Ministry, given that department's notorious tendency to secrecy. "Do you really think he would have passed that on?" she asked, cautiously.

"Hm." Snape frowned. "Any other Unspeakable would not, but Sirius... well, he might consider it his duty to alert someone to the possibility. I think it unlikely that he would have made any sort of official statement about it, but he might well have dropped hints to a few select people. Sirius is capable of great subtlety, for all his apparent impulsivity and openness."

"So he might have told Kingsley, or hinted at someone who told Kingsley."

"Kingsley Shacklebolt?" Professor Snape asked. When she nodded, he went on, "He has a certain reputation. It wouldn't surprise me if he'd managed to pick up on some hints and then found a way to get into Hogwarts so he could investigate the truth of them." He sighed. "Still, until I can talk to Sirius about what, if anything, he may have said, this is all conjecture. Interesting, perhaps, but not of much practical value." Snape glanced up at the clock, then let out a breath with a hiss that spoke of frustration. "You might want to consider preparing for your next class. I have a group of third years after lunch, so I had better abandon this fascinating study in order to set up my classroom."

Hermione looked up and saw that there were only fifteen minutes left of the lunch hour. "Oh. Right. I'm sorry for distracting you, sir."

Professor Snape gave her a small smile. "I would be more inclined to thank you for bringing me the Runes than to chastise you for interrupting my marking, Miss Granger. You have given me a good deal to think about; now all we can do is wait to see what happens after dinner tonight."

Hermione nodded to the Professor and politely took her leave, reflecting on those last words. He was right; the truth would soon be revealed. Though how she was meant to get through the rest of the afternoon, she had no idea.

* * *

It was second nature by now for Hermione to take copious notes while listening to her teachers – but though she had unquestionably done so during her classes that afternoon, she had no memory of it. The neat rolls of parchment were there in her bag as proof, but the lessons themselves had completely passed her by. It was the first time that this had ever happened to her, and though she had a good excuse for her abstraction, she still felt guilty about it. Not paying attention in lessons was disrespectful – and worse, ungrateful – to the teacher, who was there to help her learn.

Still, minor qualms of conscience aside, she had made it to dinner without incident, and she was only minutes away from the selection of the Champions. As she slid into her usual place on the Gryffindor table in the Great Hall, Lavender offered her a bright smile and a half full bowl of beef bourguignon. "I know you're nervous," she said, not giving Hermione any time to protest this statement. "But you'll need to eat something, unless you really want to faint later on."

She didn't say "when you're chosen as the Champion", but Hermione could tell that she _wanted_ to.

"Isn't it usually _you_ who nearly forgets to eat?" she asked, mildly, though she took the serving bowl and spooned a generous portion onto her plate.

Lavender tossed her hair back dismissively. "That's neither here nor there at the moment."

"Of course not." Hermione snorted good-humouredly and began to eat. She was surprisingly hungry, and the stew was so delicious that she ate nearly all of it before her body remembered that she was supposed to be too nervous to eat anything. Both Lavender and Draco seemed very pleased to see this, and Hermione wondered when she'd gone from mothering her friends to having _them_ mother _her_.

The dinner hour lasted longer than she would have believed possible, and the Great Hall grew fuller with every passing minute. Hermione's ears filled with the buzz of a hundred different private conversations, but she found that she couldn't talk at all, not even to Draco, who gave up trying to engage her attention after a few minutes of monosyllables and blank stares. She knew that she was being incredibly rude, but there was simply no room for anything but the Goblet of Fire in her head.

And then, finally, a hushed silence fell as the impartial judge was removed from the Entrance Hall and brought slowly and dramatically up to the head table. Hermione's heart was beating too loud and too fast. She wanted to scream but couldn't. All she could do was wait. It was almost time. The Goblet of Fire was set up at the end of the Great Hall as if it were the Sorting Hat, the uncanny blue flames just visible from where she sat. She knew what was going to happen. She'd seen this before, after all. Minister Fudge stepped forward towards the Goblet, as pompous and self-important as ever. He flourished his wand like Lockhart before a duel, and then tapped the outside of the Goblet once, twice, three times. Everyone in the Great Hall seemed to be holding their breath.

The flames flashed red for an instant, and then a piece of folded parchment shot out into Fudge's hand. Despite the man's general incompetence, he managed to catch it neatly enough. He unfolded it and read what was written there with an unmistakeably panicked expression. "The Champion for Durmstrang will be Nadezhda Zinchenko!" he announced, making a brave and not entirely wrong attempt at pronouncing the young woman's given name. A short and slender dark-haired girl stood up from her seat at the Slytherin table, bowed to the Hall at large, and then swept off into the small waiting room behind the head table, escorted by a rather smug Karkaroff.

Applause echoed through the Hall, but stopped abruptly when the flames glowed red again. Another piece of parchment flew out into Fudge's waiting hand. "The Champion for Beauxbatons will be... Etienne Lefèvre!" The Minister's French accent was apparently much better than his Russian one. Cheers sounded from the Ravenclaw table as a young man with reddish gold hair stood up, looking rather more dazed than anything else. He stumbled towards the waiting room under Madam Maxime's guidance, a faint pink blush staining his cheeks.

The Hall fell into a sharp, expectant silence as the fire burned red once more. Hermione's fingers clenched on the seat of the Gryffindor bench as the parchment – did it look familiar? – landed in the Minister for Magic's hand. She couldn't breathe. Was there air in the room at all? Slowly, achingly slowly, Fudge unfolded the parchment and read the name. Hermione bit her lip. "And finally, the Champion for Hogwarts, the hosting school for the Tournament will be..." He hesitated deliberately. Every Hogwarts student in the Hall leaned towards him. "Hermione Granger!"

The Gryffindor table erupted. Hermione nearly fell off the bench, despite her grip.

"I told you!" Draco shouted, his eyes dancing as he patted her a little too heavily on the back. "We all knew you'd get it!"

Hermione laughed weakly and tried to stand on legs that seemed to have turned to jelly. "I know, but I... I can't believe it," she breathed, feeling giddy and too hot and nearly frozen to the spot by all the people in the Hall who were staring at her.

"Start believing it," Lavender said, warmly. "And go join the other Champions."

_The other Champions_. She was a Champion. It was... she had no words to describe it. Feeling as unsteady on her feet as Lefèvre had looked, she weaved her way up to the head table, dodging the heartier attempts to congratulate her, and vanished into the small room.

"Another girl, I see." Nadezhda Zinchenko gave her a completely unreadable look, and then smiled faintly. "It is good to meet you, fellow Champion." Her voice was strongly accented but melodic and pleasing to the ear.

"I..." This was just far too surreal. "I'm pleased to meet you, too." She held out her hand to the other girl. "I'm Hermione. Hermione Granger."

Zinchenko accepted the proffered hand. "As you must have heard, I am Nadezhda, but you of course may call me Nadya." Her eyes flicked over to Lefèvre, and she gave a brief nod. "You also, _monsieur_."

Lefèvre grinned. "_Merci, ma chère demoiselle._" In English, he added, "It is my great pleasure to compete with two such lovely young women." He bowed. "You both may call me Etienne."

Hermione snorted. "Lovely young women?" She looked at Nadya and saw a similar look of amusement and incredulity on her neat features.

"Will you say, then, that I am a liar?" Etienne asked, seriously. "I say that you are lovely because you are. Though you must not imagine that I will allow either of you to win because of it, or else you will be disappointed."

Before either Hermione or Nadya could reply to this episode of arrogance – or bravado – the door opened and Harry came in.

Nadya eyed him with interest. "Ah, do they want us back in the Hall?"

Harry stopped in the doorway and ran his hands through his already disordered hair. "I... honestly, I have no idea what's going on." Hermione, who knew only too well what was going on, felt a thrill of excitement down her spine. There was a Death Eater plot, and Harry was once again at the centre of it. She knew how to deal with this. "The Goblet... a fourth name came out of it. _My_ name. And I... I'm sorry. I don't understand. But Dumbledore told me to come through here with the other Champions, so here I am."

Etienne and Nadya were glaring at Harry, equal parts suspicious and just plain surprised. He turned towards Hermione, almost reluctantly, as if he was afraid of her reaction. She put her whole heart into the smile she directed at him, knowing from experience exactly how he must feel. "It'll be alright, Harry," she said, softly. "They'll sort it out."

His eyes were wide and panicked, and for a moment she wasn't sure whether or not he'd heard her. Then he let out a sound that might have been a gasp or a sob, crossed the space between them in three large strides, and swept her into a bone-crushing hug. Hermione froze in surprise, but only for a moment; knowing that Harry needed the comfort, she leant her head against his shoulder and put her arms around him in return. She knew that reality would reassert itself soon enough. There was a Death Eater in the school, and they were both now magically contracted to compete in a potentially deadly Tournament – but Harry was being openly affectionate _in public_, and, for the moment, that was the only thing that really mattered.


	12. Our Greatest Source of Pride

**Author's Notes:** This chapter is a perfect example of how I can sit down to write a conversation about one thing, but then it runs away with me and becomes about something else. And then Draco decided to gatecrash it, which was nice of him.

Chapter 19 has been giving me trouble, so it's only a little more than half done at time of writing. And given some possible splits I've been considering, this might end up being 32-34 chapters long rather than 30. I'll have to see how it goes.

* * *

**12\. Our Greatest Source of Pride**

"It happened just as you said."

Sirius did not sound particularly surprised. But then, why should he? Neither he nor Professor Snape had shown any sign of doubting Hermione, not since the very beginning of their association. Though they had always spoken hypothetically, it had seemed somehow inevitable all along that it would come to this. That they would discover that the same Death Eater plot was in motion. How else could she explain her presence in this world, at this time? Hermione had always held Divination in contempt, and to say that she had been _meant_ to come here was unsettlingly close to admitting that fate and fortune-telling were real, but she had no other explanation.

"I think we were all expecting it," Professor Snape said, giving voice to Hermione's thoughts with uncanny accuracy. He tapped the side of his nose with a long finger, his eyes narrowed slightly in thought. "Perhaps it would be wise if we were all to keep a close eye on Professor Slughorn, given what Miss Granger said about the young Barty Crouch."

Hermione grimaced. "Unfortunately, I don't have any idea what Slughorn _ought_ to be like." She sighed. "I don't suppose anyone would really know; it's been years since he taught here last, and he's old enough to pass any inconsistencies off as senility."

"Well, yes; that would be so if we weren't aware of the plan," Sirius said, running his hands through his hair in agitation. It was something she hadn't seen him do before, and it was almost painfully reminiscent of Harry – _her_ Harry. "As it is, anything that doesn't fit can be taken as a sign that he isn't who he's supposed to be. By us, at least."

A sudden thought struck Hermione. "We should be on the lookout for Professor Slughorn trying to find excuses to help Harry in the Tournament, since that's what the false Moody did. Although..." She reconsidered, frowning. "Harry is sixteen, not fourteen. He's not that much younger than the rest of us. Maybe Crouch won't try to help him quite as much this time. He might not think that it's necessary."

"I am sure that he will try to lend at least _some_ aid to his false Champion," Professor Snape said, his voice tight with some restrained emotion. Hermione realised that he was probably more than a little annoyed that one of his least favourite students was being honoured in such a way, even if, rationally speaking, he knew full well that it was only due to a Death Eater plot. "After all, he will need it if he is to outperform _you_, Miss Granger."

Sirius laughed and lifted his glass of port. "We should drink to that: Hermione Granger, the _true_ Champion of Hogwarts!"

Professor Snape snorted and rolled his eyes, but lifted his glass likewise and drank the toast. Hermione felt a little uncomfortable. This Harry was not her Harry, but he was still her friend, and there was still a plan in motion that was intended to lead to his death. Whatever Harry had done to these two men, she couldn't find that idea even the slightest bit funny. It angered her that they apparently _could_.

"You know that this isn't Harry's fault," she pointed out, as gently as she could manage. "He didn't _choose_ for any of this to happen." Their attitude was unpleasantly reminiscent of her fourth year, and those awful badges: _Support Cedric Diggory, the REAL Hogwarts Champion._ It irked her that two adults she really wanted to like and trust were behaving more like the fourteen-year-old Malfoy than any sort of responsible authority figure ought to. "I know that you don't like him, but..." She stopped, unsure how to finish the sentence.

Fortunately, Professor Snape understood what she hadn't said. "You are right, Miss Granger," he said, gravely. "This is beneath us." He sighed and shot an unreadable look at Sirius, who pulled a sympathetic face and leaned over to rest his hand on Snape's shoulder. "I am not usually so... unreasonable," he added, after a moment spent regaining his composure. "It is just... Harry. I was prepared to treat the boy exactly the same as any other student when he arrived, in spite of what his father did to me, in spite of his own rejection of Sirius. But... I think that I began to hate him the first time I heard him refer to his mother as a _Mudblood_."

It didn't come as a _surprise_ to Hermione, not exactly. She had already realised that this Harry had no objection to using such slurs, and that he had very little respect for his Muggle-born mother. What she didn't understand was why that would have affected Professor Snape so. Did he really object so strongly – more strongly than Hermione herself – to people saying things like that? Or was there something more to this, something she didn't know and couldn't expect him to tell her? The latter seemed most likely; Sirius certainly seemed aware of what the problem was.

"Just a little too close to the bone, eh?" Sirius said, squeezing Snape's shoulder and gently ghosting his hand along the back of the other man's neck. She found it... strange, both seeing Snape at such a vulnerable moment _and_ seeing the two men so comfortable with one another, when in a different world they'd been enemies. It was almost – but not quite – enough to distract her from the fact that she had absolutely no idea what their conversation was about anymore. "Reminded you too much of..."

"Of something we're _not_ going to waste our time talking about." Professor Snape interrupted Sirius with a certain amount of irritation, ducking away from the soft contact as though he was embarrassed by it. He looked up and met Hermione's eyes, then gave her a rather sad smile. "I'm sorry, Miss Granger. You must feel a bit lost with all this discussion of the past. And it isn't important, anyway; what _is_ important is that Voldemort wants the blood of Harry Potter, and we need to find some way to prevent him from getting it."

Sirius, annoyed by Snape's dismissal, flicked the other man on the ear – drawing a startled yelp out of his friend – before turning his attention back to the subject at hand. "Hm. Or do we?"

"What on earth is that supposed to mean?" Professor Snape stared at the Unspeakable, his eyes reflecting the same perplexity that Hermione felt.

"Well..." Sirius waved his hand around as if trying to conjure up the right words from thin air. "The way I see it is that it would be a great idea to let Voldemort carry out his plan, all the way up to the part where he comes back from the dead – and then kill him for good, right in the middle of his big gloating monologue. I'm sure he won't be able to resist making one. Evil overlords and all that." He paused, frowning. "Of course, first we'd have to figure out _how_ he managed to rise from the dead in the first place, so we can keep him from doing it again. I'd really like him to _stay_ dead this time."

"The ritual," Snape said, now, turning to Hermione. "Do you remember exactly what it was? Knowing that might help. Sirius has access to information on all magic ever banned by the Ministry, and more besides."

"I wasn't actually _there_," Hermione pointed out. She'd heard the story from Harry afterwards, but that wasn't quite the same thing. "I can't guarantee that what I was told is accurate. And I don't know the _words_ for the ritual; Harry didn't say, and he was in such a state when he was talking about it that I didn't really like to ask more questions." Even she, with her insatiable curiosity and drive for knowledge, had known that interrupting Harry's tragic tale with quibbles about magical theory would have been incredibly insensitive.

"Understood," Sirius said, nodding, his mouth set in a grim line. "Just knowing the components would be a big help, though. I mean, there can only be so many rituals for _bringing a demented Dark wizard back from the dead_, wouldn't you agree?"

"I... well, yes, that makes sense." Hermione thought back carefully, trying to remember every detail Harry had told her about the disastrous ending of the Third Task. "Um, okay, so... you know that he took Harry's blood. That was supposed to be the blood of an enemy, I think. Then there was the bone of his dead father, which was taken from the grave. That's why the ritual was done in that graveyard in the first place. Then the flesh of a servant – a Death Eater cut off his hand and put it into the ritual cauldron." She grimaced. "Yes, I think that was it. I'm not sure if I have the order right, though."

Sirius smiled. "That should be enough for me to find out what the ritual is and what exactly it's used for. Then we'll know exactly what we're dealing with."

"There are only so many ways to ensure survival beyond death," Professor Snape said, thoughtfully. "We should be able to find out what he did. And then... well, anything that has been done can be undone." He fell silent for a moment, and then gave a sharp laugh. "It occurs to me that, if we wish to follow Sirius' plan, we may need Hermione to win the Tournament and take the Cup. Or at the very least take it alongside Harry. If that... if _he_ can be persuaded to share the glory, of course."

Hermione froze at the suggestion. She wasn't a coward – she was a Gryffindor, after all – but that... that was how Cedric had died. He had been _the spare_, discarded by Voldemort and murdered by the rat, Pettigrew. If she took the Cup alongside Harry, that fate would be hers instead. Or would it? Her sharp mind found an alternative solution. "If the Third Task is the same, I could reach the Cup and Disillusion myself, then wait for Harry..."

"So that you can arrive at the graveyard without Voldemort seeing that you're there!" Sirius finished, beaming triumphantly. "A very good idea. I wish I'd thought of it."

In a dry voice, Professor Snape said, "I'm sure that, if there is ever an official Department of Mysteries report on this, you will have thought of it." He smirked.

"Yes, yes, very amusing," Sirius said, rolling his eyes. "Mind you, we've two other Tasks to get through first, and no guarantee that anything will be the way Hermione remembers it."

"We?" Hermione repeated, alarmed. "You can't help me. That's against the rules!"

Professor Snape chuckled. "We absolutely can help you _prepare_, Miss Granger. It is only against the rules to have outside assistance during the Tasks themselves. Do you honestly think that Karkaroff and Madame Maxime won't be helping their own Champions as much as they possibly can?"

"I suppose they will be," Hermione murmured, feeling rather stupid. Although... she was sure that he was wrong about the rules of the Tournament; if outside help from teachers had been permitted, the false Moody would not have needed to be so sly about aiding Harry, would he? Hermione would not have become a Gryffindor if she had been capable of accepting "everyone else will be doing it" as an excuse for cheating. "You know," she said, with an ironic little smile, "I'm not sure that I trust a Slytherin and a trickster to know what the rules are."

"Now, that's really not fair." Sirius pouted at her, his offence obviously feigned. "Who knows the rules better than the people who break them?"

"Speak for yourself, mutt," Snape said, in a passable imitation of the stern manner he used in the classroom. "A Slytherin never breaks any rule that he can find a way to _bend_ instead." Then he shook his head and continued, "In all seriousness, Miss Granger, we are forbidden to find out anything about the Tasks and teach you how to overcome their specific challenges. It is perfectly permissible for us to help you prepare in a general sense – especially since I _am_ your Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher."

"So it was in trying to help Harry with the Tasks themselves – especially with making sure he got the Gillyweed for the Second Task – that the false Moody went wrong?" Hermione couldn't think of anything from her fourth year that contradicted this, so she was prepared to accept it as true. She had to admit that she was relieved that she wouldn't have to refuse their help. The idea of doing everything alone, or with only her classmates for support, was daunting in the extreme, and she had no idea how Harry had managed to cope at all. It seemed to Hermione that, in her own reality, Hogwarts had failed its Champions rather spectacularly.

"Indeed," Snape said. "Though if you do come to the conclusion that you need Gillyweed, I will be happy to provide you with some from my personal stores." He raised an eyebrow, seeming amused by her surprise. "I may not _teach_ Potions anymore, Miss Granger, but I do still _brew_ them. Why did you think I refused to move into the Defence teacher's office?"

"I didn't really think about it." Hermione frowned, realising that it was true. That, despite her respect for her teachers, she'd never really thought of them as people, with lives and motivations of their own. "I suppose I just assumed that you thought moving would be too much of an inconvenience."

"Well, yes, that too." Professor Snape reached for his glass, saw that it was empty and Summoned the decanter from the dining room table. "I have carved out a very comfortable space for myself here, after all." He took out the stopper and poured himself a refill. "The thing is..."

But whatever the thing might have been, it was destined to remain unsaid, for at that moment Snape was interrupted by a knock at the door. Sirius' head snapped up and he drew his wand in a flash, waving it in a complicated pattern that Hermione didn't recognise. Whatever it was, no sooner had he finished the casting than he visibly relaxed in his chair.

"It's Draco," he said, reaching for the port decanter and winking at Hermione. "And I doubt he's here on _my_ account."

Hermione blushed, but shot back, "Does he even know you're here?"

"Ah, no. No, I suppose he wouldn't." Sirius looked a little embarrassed.

Snape rolled his eyes and put his glass down on the coffee table. "I'll get the door, then," he said, acidly.

"And so you should," Sirius returned, smartly. "These are your rooms."

"Spare me from Gryffindors and their so-called sense of humour," Snape muttered, walking across the room and throwing the door open with every appearance of great irritation. "Mr. Malfoy. It's late. Shouldn't you be in your common room?"

"I... probably, yes." Despite this admission, Draco showed no sign of actually leaving. Instead, he took a tentative step forwards, at which point Professor Snape moved back to allow him into the room beyond. "Thanks, Severus," he said brightly. "I was just looking for Hermione." Cool grey eyes, almost reminiscent of her own world's Malfoy, rested on her as he spoke. She shivered. What could have gone wrong in the handful of hours since her selection? "Ah, you _are_ here. Lavender passed along your message about meeting with Severus, but you'll forgive me for not entirely believing it."

"What?" Hermione wasn't sure what was going on – and the offensive manner of Draco's speech had angered her – but there was no mistaking the fact that he felt in some way injured. By what, she had no idea, but something had hurt him and now he was lashing out at her like a wounded animal. Her uncertainty about what had caused this mood in the first place prevented her from losing her temper quite as thoroughly as she might otherwise have, but couldn't keep all the irritation she felt at bay.

"Well, there _are_ other people you might be visiting in the dungeons, aren't there?" His blunt question bordered on insolence, and Hermione suppressed the urge to slap him. At least she understood what – and who – he was talking about now, although this uncomfortably spiteful jealousy was not a reaction that she would ever have expected from him.

"Okay, I get it," she said, her voice oddly strained. "You're talking about Harry. I don't know how you know about that, but I can tell you that your ideas are completely wrong. He's my friend. Nothing more. He has been for ages. We just didn't ever talk about it because he's a Slytherin and I'm a Muggle-born." Draco opened his mouth, perhaps to protest, perhaps to apologise – but Hermione glowered him into silence and continued, "And I would have you know, Draco Malfoy, that I do not appreciate being spoken to in such a way. Or having such wild accusations thrown in my face."

"I..." Draco flinched away from the look in her eyes, then buried his head in his hands, rubbing his face in agitation. When he looked up, there was no trace of anger left; in fact, he looked rather ashamed. "I'm sorry, Hermione," he said, sounding sincere and more than a little pathetic. "I shouldn't have said those things."

"So why did you?" she asked, more out of curiosity than anything else.

"I... it's stupid," he muttered.

"Granted," Hermione said, almost amused in spite of herself. "But still, why?"

Draco scowled. "It was just... the common room was full of talk. Someone had heard about you and Potter hugging each other, of all things, and to start with it was just an official truce for the sake of the Tournament, but as more and more time passed and you didn't show up, it became a secret love affair, and _then_ people were implying that was where you were at that very moment. Which... well, I tried not to listen and I didn't _want_ to believe it, but you'd vanished without a word to anyone but Lavender, and I couldn't think why Severus would be keeping you so long." He sighed. "Of course, I should have realised that he'd invite Dad over" – here he nodded at Sirius, the first sign he'd given that he was aware of the older man – "and they'd be plying you with alcohol."

"They're the ones drinking, not me," Hermione said, sniffing in mock-disapproval. "Professor Snape did offer, but I still think like a Muggle in some respects. You need to be eighteen to drink in the Muggle world. Also, _Severus_ is my teacher, which is just... yeah, it would be far too weird to drink with him." She shot Professor Snape a dirty look, and he smirked. Then she returned her gaze to Draco, and her boyfriend fidgeted slightly under the intensity of it. "But that's neither here nor there," she said, her voice cool and unhappy. "I just... I don't like the idea of you believing stupid gossip about me. And I especially don't like you storming in with jealous accusations." Jealousy was not at all attractive; she realised that now.

"Yeah, I know." Draco did at least look genuinely remorseful. "I'm sorry. I fucked up."

"Draco!" Sirius growled. "What have I told you about using that sort of language?" His eye twitched with the effort of keeping a straight face. "Not in front of Severus, remember?"

"Oops." Draco adopted a hangdog expression. Professor Snape looked as if he might break a rib from holding his silent laughter inside. "But Dad, I think Severus is old enough to know about swear words now, right?"

"Ridiculous brat." Severus tweaked Draco's ear as he passed on his way back to his chair.

"Ow." Draco winced, though Hermione was sure that it was mostly for show. "Hey, _I'm_ too old for you to do _that _now!"

"Evidently not," Snape said, his eyes glittering as his lips curled up ironically.

"I... You... Wait, this is all beside the point, isn't it?" Draco shook his head and moved towards Hermione, holding out his hands almost in supplication. "I really _am_ sorry. I was – I guess I was angry that you apparently had some sort of relationship with Potter that I didn't know about. Not that I have any right to demand that you tell me everything you do, I know that, but..."

Hermione took pity on him. She knew all too well what jealousy was like, especially irrational jealousy. "I understand," she said, softly. "I really do. I don't _like_ it, but I get it. Especially with all the gossips in Gryffindor Tower whispering and _staring_ at you." She got up from her chair and closed the distance between her and Draco, taking his hands in hers and looking up into anguished eyes. "I'm sorry I left without talking to you first, by the way."

"You couldn't have known what awful rumours people were going to come up with." Draco tried to smile, but he still looked miserable. "I was... I don't even know why I believed such stupid things about you for a moment." A deep sigh shook his slender body, and for a moment he hung his head, not quite meeting her eyes. When he did look directly at her, it was through a partial curtain of pale blonde fringe. "Can you forgive me?" Only a very slight tremor in his voice revealed just how nervous he was about her answer.

"Of course," she said, almost as soon as the question had left his lips. The effect was immediate; relief bled the tension from his frame, and she realised for the first time exactly how tightly wound he had been. She did wonder if perhaps she'd given in too easily... but he _had_ apologised, a frank and honest apology, without even trying to justify his actions. And that was probably _why_ she'd forgiven him so quickly. She knew from experience that very few people would simply have said _I shouldn't have done that_, an acknowledgement of wrongdoing with no excuses or deflections. Much as she hated to admit it, Ron – _her_ Ron – would likely have come up with at least one reason why it was all really her fault. If he'd bothered to apologise at all.

Draco distracted her from these thoughts by giving a strange little half-smile and leaning down to kiss her on the forehead. His breath was warm against her skin, and she gave a tiny involuntary shiver. He chuckled so softly that she felt it more than heard it, and said, "So... our first fight?"

Hermione let go of his hands only to wrap her arms around him and burrow gently into his chest. "It wasn't much of a fight," she murmured, still slightly stunned by how quickly her anger had evaporated. Looking up at him, she met eyes that were once again warm and gentle, not at all like Malfoy's. She sighed, and with perfect truth added, "But that's only because you're so good at apologies."

"Mm, well..." His arms slipped around her waist and drew her tightly against him. "That's not such a bad thing to be good at." His lips were scarcely more than an inch from her ear, and he punctuated his statement by nipping gently at her earlobe. Hermione let out a long, shaky breath that turned into a gasp as his lips brushed the side of her neck, followed an instant later by his tongue –

Professor Snape cleared his throat. Draco jolted backwards as if he'd just touched a live electrical wire, disentangling himself from Hermione with startling speed and obvious embarrassment. She'd never seen his cheeks so red. Had he really forgotten where they were, and who else was there? Hermione giggled at the look on his face. She really couldn't help it, even when he shot her a wounded and reproachful glare.

"Well, that's quite enough information about my son's relationship for one day," Sirius said into the silence, his voice quivering with the effort of not succumbing to another fit of laughter. "Though it is nice to see that at least one of us knows what to do when he, uh, screws up."

"Quite." Snape was smirking again. "Perhaps you should take some lessons from him?"

"No one asked you." Sirius glowered at Snape, and there was a definite sulky tone to his voice.

"So, Dad, what are you doing here, anyway?" Draco had regained enough composure to speak, but had unsurprisingly chosen to change the subject. "It's obviously not for the pleasure of seeing me."

Sirius laughed. "Draco, you're sixteen. You can't possibly want your old man to visit you in the common room more than once in a blue moon." He shook his head. "And I'm here on Unspeakable business, taking that infernal Goblet in for examination. Someone must have tampered with it, someone with a lot more knowledge and experience than Potter could possibly have. It's just the sort of puzzle that we love to play with down in the Department of Mysteries." He looked around the room, as if he had only just noticed that he wasn't doing what he had allegedly come to do.

Draco snorted. "But instead, one thing led to another, and before you knew where you were you were drinking port with Severus in his private rooms. Funny how that happens, isn't it?"

"Hey, now," Sirius protested. "I came to ask Severus for his opinion and found him here in conference with Hermione, so I decided to ask both of them if they had any theories. Or if they'd seen anything suspicious around the Goblet." He took a sip of his port. "Of course, it was only polite for Severus to offer me a drink, and only polite for me to accept his kind offer."

"Right. Of course." Draco raised an eyebrow at this. "You're both so very _polite_." There was an impish, mocking tone to his voice. "When it suits you to be, that is."

"No respect at all," Sirius said, as mournfully as he could manage while fighting off an inconvenient grin. "No one ever takes me seriously. It's not fair."

"People might take you more seriously if you stopped whining like a child, Black." Professor Snape looked up from his contemplation of the ruby liquid in his glass to amuse himself at Sirius' expense.

Before Sirius could muster a reply, Draco tugged gently on the sleeve of Hermione's robe and announced, "Okay, we have to get back to the common room before lights out, so we'll leave you to get on with your important Unspeakable work, Dad."

"Fine, just run away, abandon me to Severus' tender mercies." Sirius pouted.

"You'll cope," Draco said, dismissively. "You always have." This drew a snort from Professor Snape and a sharp bark of laughter from Sirius that unfortunately ruined his pretence at being miserable.

Hermione at least made the effort to say a polite goodnight to both men, before she and Draco went out into the dungeon corridor beyond Professor Snape's office. For a moment they looked at one another in awkward silence, then Draco said, "So, do I need to apologise again?"

Hermione laughed and shook her head. "No, but you can make it up to me."

He frowned. "I can?" Then his expression cleared and a very familiar wicked look crept into his eye. "I can." He smiled and held out his hand.


	13. Something Short of Innocent

**Author's Notes: **And now for a bit of a change of pace. Because Lavender may be different, but she's not _that_ different. Writing for her is actually a lot of fun.

To the guest (N J Dryad) who reviewed every single chapter individually: Thank you for all your kind words, and I enjoyed seeing how your thoughts on what was going on changed as you kept reading. It was honestly rather fascinating. It's a shame that, as a guest, I can't reply to all of the things you've said, but know that the compliments are appreciated – particularly the one on Ch12; believe me, I feel the full force of that – and that I've taken on board the other things you've said.

Chapter 20 isn't finished yet because I suck. Chapter 14 will still be posted on 17th October, but after that I _may_ decide to revise the update schedule to every three weeks, at least until after Christmas. We'll see.

* * *

**13\. Something Short of Innocent**

Hermione looked on in despair as Lavender laid yet another set of dress robes on the bed in front of her. It seemed that her influence had only gone so far; this Lavender might be far more sensible and studious than the one in Hermione's memories, but she was still just as fashion-obsessed. And she had apparently managed to influence the Hermione of this world, as well; a thorough search of her wardrobe had revealed that she actually owned shoes – proper_ girl _shoes, not the sensible pumps or boots that were all she usually wore. It was odd, this realisation that perhaps she didn't even know _herself_ all that well.

The dress robes were all Lavender's, though. Perhaps the shoes she'd found had been this Hermione's small concession to her best friend's tastes. Lavender had exclaimed over them – especially a pair that even Hermione had to admit were nice, and which now she simply _had_ to wear – but had despaired rather loudly at most of the rest of her wardrobe. Which of course now meant that Lavender needed to take Hermione in hand and dress her properly. There would be Press photographers at the Wand Weighing, and so it was very important that the Hogwarts Champion look as good as she possibly could for the ceremony. Or, at least, that was what Lavender had _said_.

"I think you just want an excuse to fuss over me and dress me up like a doll," Hermione grumbled.

"Guilty as charged," Lavender said, laughing. "Now pick a set of robes so I can get on with your cosmetic charms. You don't think that glamorous Russian girl is going to turn up looking drab and insignificant, do you? Of course she won't! So we'll just have to make sure you look better than she does."

Hermione frowned. "Don't I have to wear my school uniform for this?"

"Oh, do you?" Lavender paused in the middle of extracting a tiny potion bottle from her makeup bag and looked over at the beautiful robes on the bed. None of them fitted the uniform guidelines, of course, and Hermione almost had a chance to feel relieved before Lavender's eyes lit up and an unusually devious expression settled on her face. There was no way that _that_ could bode well. "I do have some rather nice black robes that ought to fit you really nicely with a couple of resizing charms. Let's just have a look..."

Lavender put her bag aside and threw her wardrobe open once more, pushing an assortment of coloured robes out of the way in her quest to reach the perfect outfit. She disappeared among the fabrics for nearly half a minute, but then emerged with a set of black dress robes and a triumphant grin. "Okay, these are just what you need," she said, holding them out to Hermione. "Put them on and you'll see what I mean."

Having no alternative, Hermione took the robes, immediately noting that the material was softer and finer than the fabric of her uniform. These were black robes with no patterns or adornments that would have violated the school dress code, but they were still absolutely nothing like the robes she wore every day. The differences persisted when she put them on; her uniform robes had never looked even remotely flattering, but these were a very different matter. Lavender hadn't even resized them to fit her yet, and they already accentuated her figure in a way that made her blush – though she _did_ wonder what Draco would think when he saw her.

"So? Do you like them?" Lavender was smirking, Hermione could tell from her voice.

"They're very nice," she said, simply, trying not to show her embarrassment. "I... well, they fit better than I'd expected."

"Hey, our figures aren't _that_ different!" Lavender protested, laughing. "But you'll definitely look better once I cast a couple of spells." She dug her wand out from underneath a daring set of purple robes that she'd claimed would be _perfect_ for the Yule Ball. "There! Now we'll fix these up." A couple of mostly inaudible spells later, the beautiful black robes were even _more_ form-fitting, and Hermione just stared at her reflection, almost certain that this had to be against the school rules somehow. "Okay, that's done! Aren't they just perfect?" Lavender obviously did not share her misgivings.

"I'm... they're... yes. They're wonderful." Hermione couldn't help but smile, even if she _was_ rather worried about what message she was sending by wearing such fitted robes. "Are you sure they're _allowed_, though?"

"You think it should be illegal to look that good?" Lavender grinned at her scandalised expression. "But seriously, yes, you're fine. I checked and double-checked the school dress code before I forked out the money to buy these. Nothing says you _can't_ wear tailored robes."

"Oh. But what did you buy them for?" Hermione asked, smoothing the robes down with her hands and trying not to feel too self-conscious.

"That's what my mother wanted to know," Lavender said. "I just told her that there were many reasons to own a beautiful set of black robes. Like how Muggle women have a little black dress, right?" She paused to look at Hermione, who smiled and nodded. Lavender had probably learned about Muggle dresses from her mother; Dr. Marlowe-Granger was a big proponent of elegant evening dress. "I didn't elaborate on what those reasons are, though," Lavender added now, with a smirk.

"Since I'm not your mother, will you tell me?" Hermione couldn't stop looking at her reflection. It was strange, but she was slowly becoming reconciled to the fact that she looked very much like a grown woman, though she still didn't really _feel_ like one.

"Ah, well. Robes with this sort of cut in plain black are perfect for teasing Seamus in every class we share." Lavender's eyes glinted mischievously. "I'm sure they'll work just as well on Draco." Hermione flushed and looked away, fidgeting uncomfortably. Her friend laughed. "There's no need to be shy about it, Hermione. You ought to _want_ to be admired by your boyfriend."

"It's not Draco I'm worried about," Hermione muttered. "It's everyone else."

"They'll just think you look very nice," Lavender said, firmly. "And the photos in the _Prophet_ will speak for themselves." She stabbed her wand at the piles of clothes on her bed, then smiled as they obediently began to pack themselves back into the wardrobe. The sight reminded Hermione of the marching brooms in _The Sorcerer's Apprentice_. Makeup bag in hand, Lavender turned back to her, beaming like a triumphant fairy godmother. "Now we just need a few cosmetic charms and potions. The camera can be very cruel, and we don't want that. Everyone needs to know that the Hogwarts Champion is as beautiful as she is brave and brilliant."

Hermione gave a rather hollow laugh but allowed Lavender to seat her on the edge of the now-clear bed. She knew that she wasn't beautiful, but it seemed silly – not to mention ungrateful – to say so. "Not too much, Lavender," she warned, a note of bitterness creeping into her voice. "I want people to be able to recognise me." It had been humiliating to realise that even her best friends hadn't immediately known who she was at the Yule Ball – her first Yule Ball. She didn't want to make that mistake ever again.

"Oh, I'll be careful not to make it too heavy," Lavender assured her. "It's only a daytime occasion, so there's no need to go overboard." She pulled three small potion bottles out of her bag and lined them up on her bedside table. "So, a complexion smoother, something to reduce the bags under your eyes – they're barely noticeable, but the camera will find them – and a slight lip stain. That should be enough." Then she frowned at Hermione's curls. "Maybe I should rustle up something to tame your hair ever so slightly. Not _too_ much, though; with the frizz reduced, that's a classic style."

"What, heaps of bushy curls?" Hermione asked, dryly.

"Rich, _luxuriant_ curls," Lavender corrected her. There was an amused glint in her eyes. "Really, Hermione, must you downplay your best features? So you need a bit of work to be 'naturally beautiful'? You're not the only one." She snorted at Hermione's obvious surprise. "I guarantee you, any girl you've ever compared yourself unfavourably to – well, most of them use at _least_ this much magic every morning. No one's effortlessly flawless."

Hermione sighed. "I know. I don't care most of the time, it's just..." She trailed off and waved her hand around in mute frustration, hoping that Lavender would understand without her having to say the words.

Her friend laughed. "It's okay, I get it," she said. "But you'd be frustrated with someone who wanted to get good marks without studying, wouldn't you? Well, of course you would. So would I. And yes, I know that it's not _quite_ the same thing, but you don't get anything worth having without _some_ pain." She produced a potion bottle topped by a very Muggle-looking spray applicator. "Now," she said, the finality in her voice suggesting that the subject was closed. "Let's see about these silky curls."

* * *

Hermione thought that Harry's eyes were going to fall out of his head when he saw her. "_Damn_," he said, in an undertone, as she took her place next to him. "Those are quite some robes."

She scowled. "Don't say another word."

He laughed quietly and completely ignored her. "Malfoy's a lucky bastard, that's all I'm saying."

"Shut _up_, Harry." Hermione hit him on the upper arm, hard enough to sting but not to leave a bruise. He let out a slight hiss and shot her a plaintive look of mock-betrayal. She sighed; much as she didn't want to admit it, she _did_ feel bad. "Lavender made me wear this."

Harry paused in rubbing his arm – far too dramatically, in Hermione's opinion – to say, "Then Lavender is obviously a genius. An evil genius. How am I supposed to concentrate on anything else with both you and the lovely Zinchenko in the same room?"

"Careful," Hermione said, rolling her eyes just a little. "You're starting to sound like Etienne."

"Hey, now, there's no need for _that_," Harry whined, glancing over his shoulder at the French boy, who was trying to cover his nerves by flirting badly with Nadya. "Maybe I should go over and rescue her," he said, a little too casually.

"How very noble and heroic of you," Hermione said, dryly.

"I thought so." Harry smiled as if he hadn't caught her very obvious sarcasm, but his eyes glinted with subtle humour.

"Go on, then, rescue your fair maiden from the terrifying French dragon," she said, giving Harry a shove in the right direction. He glowered at her, though his cheeks were suspiciously pink. It was the first time she'd seen this Harry quite so discomposed.

A moment later he was laughing. "What, and leave you alone so he can latch on to _you_ instead? I don't think so." He looked rather wistfully at Nadya, but then turned back to Hermione. "What sort of friend would I be if I did that?"

She shrugged. "The sort who gets distracted by a pretty woman?" She wasn't really paying all that much attention herself, as mentioning dragons had sent her thoughts in the direction of the First Task. The last time she had seen the Triwizard Tournament, she'd watched with her heart in her mouth as a younger and smaller Harry outflew a Hungarian Horntail. Would the same thing happen again? And what would _she_ do, if she were faced with her own dragon adversary?

Before her thoughts could get too grim, they were interrupted by the arrival of the wandmaker Ollivander. He seemed very pleased to be there, and moved with the easy confidence of someone who had a very exact sense of his own importance. The Minister followed him into the room, looking bumbling and insecure by comparison, and shadowed as always by the tall and handsome Kingsley. When the Auror met Hermione's eyes, he smiled and winked at her. She smiled back, remembering their brief moment of camaraderie in the Entrance Hall, the night before Halloween.

She was not quite as pleased to recognise another face in the Minister's retinue. Rita Skeeter, the poisonous _Daily Prophet_ journalist, followed Kingsley into the room, her face twisted into her usual expression of barely veiled cruelty. Hermione felt a rush of anger and hatred as she looked at the woman, though she knew that there was little Rita could do to hurt her this time around. Harry wasn't famous in this world, so it was unlikely that she'd want to write ridiculous stories about him and his tragic life. Stories in which _she_ was the villain, the fickle girl whose dalliance with a visiting Quidditch star had broken the poor hero's already wounded heart.

That wasn't going to happen, not this time. And yet the mere sight of Rita Skeeter was enough to make her blood boil. She didn't understand it.

It was fortunate that at this point the Minister launched into his speech to open the Wand Weighing ceremony. He spoke at length, typically long-winded and irrelevant, but Hermione managed to tune him out. In another life, Fudge had been the catalyst for her realisation that authority figures were not automatically right, and, unfortunately for him, Hermione had neither respect for the man nor any interest in his malformed opinions. She'd always listened attentively to Professor Binns, even at his most tedious, but a pompous and triumphant Fudge was just too much for her to take.

Eventually the Minister wound down his speech and handed the proceedings over to Ollivander. The wandmaker stepped forward with a quiet dignity that showed the Minister's flaws as clearly as any of his detractors might wish. "Simply put," he began, with a slight smile and a sideways look at Fudge, "the point of today's meeting is to ensure that the competitors' wands are in good working order."

"And perhaps each of the Champions would be willing to give me an interview?" Rita Skeeter put in, smiling insincerely. "The _Prophet_ is going to run a small feature on the Tournament, and it would be so nice if we could introduce the Champions a little more... personally." Hermione shivered involuntarily at the look in her eyes. While Rita didn't seem overly eager to talk to any particular one of them, she was clearly relishing the prestige of getting to cover the first Triwizard Tournament in over a century. Such was the interest in the competition that her article would almost certainly be widely read and discussed. Especially with exclusive _personal_ details.

"I'm sure they'd be happy to," Fudge said, with a grin that made Hermione want to hex his face with boils.

"Excellent!" Rita set up her loathsome Quick-Quotes quill on a side table and gave some muttered instructions to her photographer. "So, if you could just come over here for a few words after your wand has been cleared, that would be wonderful." It clearly wasn't a request, and Hermione didn't see how to get out of it without revealing her hatred of the vicious journalist, something that she would find very hard to explain.

Ollivander cleared his throat, looking annoyed at the interruption. "Very well. Now, as to the wands... M. Lefèvre, shall we examine yours first?" The French boy coloured slightly as all eyes in the room fell on him, but he stepped forward as confidently as he could, holding out a wand made of a strange-looking dark wood. "Well, well." Ollivander looked curiously at the wand before taking it from the Beauxbatons Champion. "Blackthorn. Not a wood I usually work with – I prefer hawthorn – but it is a very beautiful wand. One of Charpentier's, unless I miss my guess?"

He looked at Etienne enquiringly, and the French wizard nodded, seeming slightly more at his ease now. "_Oui, monsieur_. Maman says they are the only wands worth buying – in France, that is." He hurriedly added the last words as if afraid that Ollivander might be offended otherwise.

"He is a craftsman of quality," the elderly wandmaker said, with what sounded like respect. "So. Blackthorn and unicorn hair. Twelve inches. Fairly pliable. A very fine wand." He waved it and produced a small hand mirror from thin air, which he offered to Rita Skeeter with a smile and a bow. The reporter accepted it, but her mouth had a sour twist to it. "Now, Miss Zinchenko?" Ollivander looked at the next Champion, leaving Etienne to deal with Skeeter as best he could. She seemed to be smiling at him, her eyes softer than Hermione remembered – but then, Etienne _was_ handsome.

Nadya flicked her wrist and her wand dropped into it. She held it out for Ollivander to take, a slight hint of smugness in her smile. "Here, Mr. Ollivander. A Gregorovitch creation, if that interests you."

"Indeed?" Ollivander took the wand and closed his eyes, as if he was listening to the wand somehow. "Hm. Rowan. Ten and a half inches. Rather inflexible." Hermione looked at the firm, proud chin of Nadya Zinchenko and thought that, in this respect at least, she was not unlike her wand. "The core, now. That is something unusual. Not a phoenix feather. It is darker than that, heavier – sadder?" He frowned. "Dear me. Can it be? An Augurey feather core? Remarkable!"

"It is an Augurey feather, yes." Nadya looked impressed.

"Not a core I have much experience with," Ollivander confessed. "I would imagine that it can be rather temperamental, though. Am I right?"

"Ah, yes, it can be." Nadya smiled as if it was all a great joke to her. "It tends to be more powerful when it is raining or just about to rain. So, as you might guess, it has performed very well in this country so far."

Hermione snorted, only managing not to laugh out loud with great difficulty. Next to her, Harry was biting his lip, but Ollivander only arched an eyebrow. He waved the wand, saying, "_Iris_!" A shimmering rainbow emerged from the end of the wand, arcing across the room to illuminate the back of Etienne's head. "Very good, Miss Zinchenko, that will do."

"Thank you." Nadya took her wand, and it vanished back up her sleeve without a word or visible gesture. She gave Ollivander a tight smile and shot a brief look over her shoulder at Harry and Hermione before heading over to Rita Skeeter with an air of great reluctance. This was more or less exactly how Hermione felt about the journalist, and so she found herself warming to the Durmstrang Champion. Though, as she glanced sideways at Harry, she thought with some amusement that he had probably been quite _warm_ towards Nadya already.

"Now then. Miss Granger?" Hermione reached out and squeezed Harry's forearm in a comforting gesture before walking over towards Ollivander, pulling out her wand as she went. She handed it across, her hands suddenly shaking with nerves as she realised that this was _real_. She really was the Hogwarts Champion. Ollivander seemed oblivious to her inner turmoil, merely taking the wand and examining it with interest. "Ah, yes. I remember every wand I have ever sold, and this was a very special one. I do not ordinarily work with vine wood, but this one was... an inspired work."

He opened his mouth to continue but was interrupted by Nadya's sharp rebuke to Rita Skeeter. "Tell your stupid quill that I am not _Russian_; I am from Ukraine. It is a different country, though perhaps you English would not know that." Her voice was not particularly loud, but it held a sharp, cold clarity that made it carry across the room. Hermione understood why she was annoyed, of course; Russia still seemed to believe that the former Soviet states belonged to it – or at least that they _should_ – so a Ukrainian could hardly be expected to look kindly on such a mistake. But then, no one had ever accused Rita Skeeter of checking her facts before writing an article. Or of being sensitive.

Ollivander cleared his throat and continued as if nothing had happened. "Yes, an inspired work. Vine wood and dragon heartstring, ten inches. A very well-balanced wand. I hope that you have been taking good care of it?"

"Of course," Hermione replied, with a small smile. Anyone who knew her at all could have vouched for the fact that she always followed the recommended care instructions for everything she owned, and encouraged others to do the same. This had varying results – though she still maintained that it had been unfair of Seamus to give her _such_ a hard time for asking him and Draco how often they polished their brooms. "I checked it over last night."

"Hm, very good." Ollivander flicked his wrist, showering red glitter all over the table. "Definitely in good working order. Thank you, Miss Granger." He nodded politely to her and turned towards the last remaining Champion, leaving her with no choice but to approach Rita Skeeter. Nadya Zinchenko had stalked away from the aggravating woman, and was now leaning against the far wall with her arms folded and her face set in a fearsome scowl. There was no excuse Hermione could use to postpone the meeting, much as she wished that she could. She sighed heavily and accepted her fate.

"Now, then." Skeeter put a new piece of parchment under her acid green Quick Quotes quill. "Hermione Granger, the Hogwarts Champion." They both looked at the quill, which wrote: _Miss Granger, 17, a stunningly pretty Muggle-born girl, sits before our reporter, awaiting her questions with poise and composure._ Hermione blinked. That wasn't rude or insulting at all! Was there something wrong with the quill? And really – she knew that she looked nice, but "stunningly pretty"? That was taking it a bit too far. "Do tell me, Miss Granger, what motivated you to enter the Tournament?"

If this was the sort of question Skeeter intended to ask, maybe it wouldn't be so bad. "I didn't expect to be chosen," Hermione said, with a light laugh that she hoped didn't sound hysterical. "My friends kept urging me to put my name in, and even my mentor Professor Snape seemed to think it was a good idea. So I thought that it couldn't hurt to try – but I never really expected that _I_ would be the Champion."

"It must have been very thrilling," Skeeter said, sounding insincere and rather bored. "How did you feel when Mr. Potter was _also_ chosen as a Champion?"

Hermione hesitated. The quill wrote: _Miss Granger is silent for a moment, perhaps reflecting on her resentment at being overshadowed by her underage classmate._ She chose to ignore this, and said, "I was surprised, of course. Very surprised. I wasn't sure what was going on at the time, but now I think that someone must have tampered with the Goblet of Fire. And I don't think it was Harry. He was as shocked as the rest of us when his name was drawn out."

"Ah, _Harry_, is it?" Rita Skeeter smiled unpleasantly. "Does this mean that there _is_ some truth to the rumours that you and he had a secret relationship?"

Hermione stiffened in indignation at the question – but really, hadn't she suspected that something of this kind would be forthcoming? That was just the sort of person Rita Skeeter was. "He and I are _friends_," she said, stressing the word deliberately. "We're _good_ friends, and I'm very fond of him, but there's never been anything more than that between us." She shrugged and looked directly at Skeeter. "You know, I wouldn't have imagined that your readers would be particularly interested in the relationship between two schoolchildren anyway." She'd understood the interest in her own world, where Harry was ridiculously famous, but it didn't make an awful lot of sense to her here.

The reporter made a grating attempt at a carefree chuckle. "Oh, you'd be surprised, Miss Granger," she said. Her eyes were much colder than her voice, which was laden with false sweetness. "Our readers _love_ romance. Especially a _secret_ romance. Star-crossed lovers kept apart by their scheming friends, or by the feuding of their two Houses. You know how the story goes."

Since Hermione had in fact read _Romeo and Juliet_ once – Shakespeare being one of the few exceptions she'd allowed to slip past her distaste for works of fiction – she _did_ know exactly what Skeeter meant. "How very charming," she said, as warmly as she could, while thinking that it was all rather nauseating. "I am sorry that your readers won't get the entertainment of such a classic tale." She smiled – or, at least, she tried to.

"I suppose that the truth is quite frequently not as exciting as we might like it to be." There was no attempt on Skeeter's part to hide her disappointment at this. In fact, she almost seemed annoyed, as if she blamed Hermione for not having a newsworthy romantic life. Obviously she was just as rude and hateful a person in this world as in the other. "Ah, and I believe Mr. Potter has finished his Wand Weighing. I'm sure that you will excuse me...?"

She turned away to welcome Harry without waiting for a reply, but Hermione still muttered, "Gladly," and went over to join Nadya in leaning against the wall.

The Ukrainian witch patted her gently on the arm. "Your reporter, she is quite a woman."

"I wish I could say that the rest of our Press was nothing like her," Hermione said, with a sigh. "But I'm afraid that would be a lie." She tugged on the end of one of her own curls in remembered agitation. "Apparently the Great British Public are very interested in such riveting issues as whether or not I am carrying on a secret love affair with Harry."

"And you are not?" Nadya's question was almost perfectly casual and disinterested, but there was a very slight tremor in her voice that betrayed her true feelings.

"No, not at all," Hermione replied, far more warmly than she had to any of Skeeter's questions. Nadya seemed nice enough, and it was hard to resent her curiosity when she had a very good idea of the other girl's reasons for wanting to know. "I have a very not-secret boyfriend who would be upset if I were also going out with Harry." It was supposed to be a joke, but she remembered Draco's real jealousy and didn't feel like laughing. She hated rumours and gossip.

There was no way for Nadya to know what she was thinking, so she only said, "Well, that is nice for you." There was a faint smile on her face as her eyes came to rest on Harry.

"It is," Hermione agreed, but her mind was not really on Nadya – or even on Draco – but on Harry and her own lack of attention. She'd let herself be distracted by Rita Skeeter, despite her resolutions to the contrary, and now she had absolutely no idea what Harry's wand core might be. The question of the phoenix feathers – of whether his wand was the brother to Voldemort's – would have to remain unanswered for now.


	14. On The Wings Of A Dream

**Author's Notes:** And now we come to the First Task! It's a little different to the canon one, mostly because I see little value in retreading what Rowling wrote when I could be writing my own thing. The end of this chapter is probably a little abrupt, but dissecting the clue for the Second Task is best left for another day/chapter, I think.

Work is a nightmare at the moment and Chapter 21 is nowhere near finished; at the moment it looks like I'll keep the two week update schedule until Christmas and then take January off to catch up.

* * *

**14\. On The Wings Of A Dream**

The day of the First Task dawned cold but clear, perfect weather for both participants and spectators.

Hermione had slept fairly well, all things considered, but her dreams had been troubling enough that when she woke at a little after half past five she made no attempt to get back to sleep. Instead, she lay in bed, quietly staring up at the red velvet canopy of her four-poster, thinking about the day to come and breathing steadily to keep from panicking. There was no reason to be ill at ease; she was as well-prepared for the Task as anyone could be. She had a well-researched plan – and if that didn't work as expected, she knew exactly what she would do instead. _And _what she'd do if that backup plan also failed. No one could ever accuse Hermione of doing things by halves.

Still, she couldn't quite shake the memory of watching Harry and the Hungarian Horntail from her mind. This would be difficult and dangerous, and anything could go wrong at any time. No matter how many possibilities she considered, there would always be something she hadn't thought of. And then what would she do? She'd proved time and time again that she just wasn't very good at thinking on her feet; if faced with an event that she hadn't foreseen, she might not be able to deal with it. _Why did I ever imagine that I could do this? And why on earth did the Goblet choose my name? _It seemed so foolish now, the idea that a bookworm and theoretical genius could compete in such a terrifying test of practical skill.

Still more discouraging was the knowledge that she had only been able to make such elaborate plans because of Harry's act of kindness. A little over a week before, during a lesson changeover, he had pulled her aside in a crowded corridor to tell her the secret of the First Task. It was exactly what he'd done in another life for Cedric, and she took heart in the fact that, Slytherin or not, Harry was still a decent person with a sense of fair play – though she was more than a little annoyed that she had no idea how he'd come by the information. She knew that the disguised Barty Crouch must have been involved somehow, but in the absence of details Hermione was no closer to figuring out who he was masquerading as. It _ought_ to be Professor Slughorn, but she couldn't be sure about that just yet.

The information Harry had given her hadn't been exactly what she'd expected, which had caught her off guard, though it probably shouldn't have. So much else was different about this world, so why should she be surprised by an altered Task? She wasn't entirely sure if the change would prove to be a good thing; while very deadly, a dragon was a predictable creature. Her adversary for this Task – another legendary beast known for guarding treasure hoards – was more intelligent and thus more difficult to trick or confuse. And... while she didn't know the exact nature of the Task, it seemed likely that just getting to the creature's hoard would be part of the challenge. Hermione thanked her lucky stars that she wasn't scared of heights.

Even so, it would be more a test of her raw nerve than of her intellect. Hermione intended to show everyone exactly why she had been Sorted into Gryffindor. She had her plan, along with several new spells that she'd learned when she'd decided they might be useful, but in the end it was all going to come down to audacity and courage. These were two of her greatest strengths, so she ought not to have any problem with the Task at all. _Ought not._ But, as her long friendship with her own Harry had taught her, nothing was ever that simple. There was always a chance that something could go wrong.

Hermione cursed under her breath and rolled out of bed. She couldn't allow such thoughts to take root in her mind; that would be the opposite of helpful. The only foolproof way to stop them was to find something to do – and so she found herself once more sneaking down into the dark and silent Gryffindor common room. The fire and lamps flared up as she reached the bottom of the stairs, the magic of Hogwarts warming and comforting her, and she made her way over to her favourite armchair to read. She'd done more than her fair share of preparation already, but perhaps reading the relevant chapters in _Smith's Bestiary_ one last time would be worth it.

It had to be better than worrying herself sick, at any rate.

When Lavender came down nearly an hour later, she didn't say anything about Hermione's last-minute studying frenzy. Instead, she gently but insistently removed the book from her friend's hands, and cheerfully forced her to go downstairs and eat breakfast. Hermione knew that Lavender was in the right, and she supposed that she ought to be grateful. Her mother had always sworn by a "proper breakfast" before particularly stressful days, which this certainly would be. And the last thing she wanted was to pass out from low blood sugar during the Task itself.

Still, everything tasted like sawdust, and it took her a ridiculous amount of effort to chew and swallow the food. Her throat felt tight and her stomach twisted unpleasantly as she tried to eat. She didn't remember ever feeling quite so nervous before. It was awful. How was she ever going to put her plans in action when her stomach was sick, her limbs were trembling and her thoughts were blurred and fragmented?

She felt a hand on her arm and flinched. "Relax, Hermione." Lavender's voice was soft and soothing. "You're going to be fine. You'll be the greatest Champion that Hogwarts could hope for no matter how the Task goes, remember that." The hand squeezed her arm reassuringly. "You wouldn't have been chosen if you couldn't do it."

"I know that," Hermione said, feeling slightly embarrassed as her voice cracked. "It's just..."

"It's okay," said Lavender, brightly. "You just needed reminding."

"I..." Hermione looked up at her friend and couldn't help but return the smile. "Yeah, I suppose I did. Thanks, Lavender."

"Any time," she said, taking her hand back and picking up her abandoned knife. "Now, try to eat at least a little bit more."

Hermione gave a heaving, long-suffering sigh and did as she was told, finding that the knot in her stomach seemed to have lessened slightly. Perhaps she _could_ do this after all.

But all too soon breakfast was over, and she and the other Champions were taken away to a special waiting room, and then to a gaudy coloured tent so that they could wait some more. None of the others seemed to be brimming with confidence either, which went a long way towards making Hermione feel better.

Even Nadya was nervous, pacing back and forth restlessly, not even sparing a glance for any of the rest of them. Harry was staring into space, his eyes glazed, and Hermione knew that he was running over his plan in his head. Etienne bounced on the balls of his feet, trying to pass off his fear as excitement, but a twitching nerve in his jaw gave him away. Hermione hadn't known how obvious her own agitation was until she realised that she'd torn a handkerchief to shreds without even noticing. She blushed and quickly Vanished the evidence.

The tension was unbearable. Surely if something didn't happen soon, one of them would start screaming.

Then, just as she thought that she couldn't take one more minute of suspense, the tent flapped open and the Minister appeared, flanked by Kingsley and Ludo Bagman, the Head of the Department of Magical Games and Sports. Hermione had never before been quite so pleased to see a pair of dishonest politicians.

"These are the Champions?" Bagman asked, his hearty voice making the question sound a little less astoundingly stupid than it might otherwise have done. "A fine crop of young people, wouldn't you agree, Cornelius?" He slapped Fudge on the back, nearly knocking the Minister to the ground. Fudge gave him a vicious glare. Kingsley seemed to be trying very hard not to laugh, though when he saw Harry and Hermione looking in his direction, he spared them both a friendly nod.

"Indeed, Ludo." Fudge's tone made the polite agreement sound more like a string of curses. "Now, we are here to reveal the First Task to you." All four Champions looked amused, sheepish or some combination of the two; evidently they all already knew. "And – Ludo, please, the bag – to allow you to choose your fate." He produced a small bag from behind his back and held it out to the nearest Champion, which turned out to be Harry. "Ah, Mr. Potter. Our... surprise entry. Put your hand in the bag and draw out one counter, if you please."

Harry reached into the bag very gingerly, as if he believed it might bite him. When he pulled it out again it was clenched into a fist around something small – the counter? Harry opened his hand to reveal a figurine of a fierce and proud creature, its wings spread, beak and claws poised to strike, haunches coiled in readiness under its weight. It was a black griffin, and there was a white cloth marked with the number 2 wrapped around it.

"So you will face the black griffin and will go second in the running order," Fudge said, stating the obvious with what he seemed to believe was style and flair. Hermione looked at the Durmstrang and Beauxbatons Champions again. No, they weren't at all surprised by any of this. But then, neither was she. Or Harry. Though that was no thanks to the Hogwarts teachers.

When it was Hermione's turn, she pulled out a white griffin with the number 4 on it. So she was to be the last, and would be confronted with the type of griffin that was reputed to be the proudest – as the black ones were the fiercest, the red ones had the sharpest talons and claws, and the yellow ones were by far the strongest. A proud griffin could work for or against her plan, but she thought it was most likely to be a good thing. She could only hope that she was right about that.

Griffins. _Smith's Bestiary_ contained a wealth of information about the habits and powers of the griffin. They hoarded treasure and guarded it fiercely, just as dragons did, but owing to their pride and intelligence were far more difficult to tame for use as guard animals. There were dragons that protected high-security vaults in Gringott's, but even the goblins didn't have any griffins. She remembered what Harry had said about the creatures: _Beautiful but deadly. Far more dangerous than a hippogriff, but just as proud_. Yes, dragons would be a more impressive spectacle, but perhaps a griffin would make for a better test.

Hermione smiled. She knew what she was doing. This was just another practical exam to pass.

"Now that you have your griffins, I can outline the aim of the Task," Fudge announced, breaking through Hermione's thoughts. She looked around, noticing that Etienne had taken the yellow griffin marked with a 1, while Nadya had a red one with the number 3. "In the testing area, you will find a griffin's nest – an eyrie. As is the habit of the griffin, it is at the top of a high cliff that we have set up for the purpose. Your Task is to reach the eyrie and collect the golden egg, without being incapacitated by the mother griffin." He smiled a little nervously. "I am sure you will all perform admirably. The best of luck to you all."

"Now, Cornelius," said Bagman, beaming at the Champions. "I don't suppose this lot need any luck!"

Fudge sighed, apparently annoyed to have met someone with even less sense than himself. "Come, Ludo," he said, holding back the tent flap. "Leave the Champions to contemplate their Task."

Once the three men had left, the four Champions stood looking at one another in awkward silence, until Harry broke through the tension by saying, "So, does anyone feel in need of luck to deal with their griffin?"

Nadya laughed. "Luck is for those who have not the skill to win any other way," she declared, her eyes flashing brilliantly with the light of challenge and bravado.

"We have a saying, in the dungeons," Harry said, with a slight smile. "'Slytherins make their own luck'. So I suppose Nadya and I will leave the Minister's good luck wishes to the two of you." He bowed mockingly to Hermione and Etienne.

"There's an element of luck to even the best-laid plans," Hermione replied, smartly. "I'll take whatever help I can get." She smirked at Harry, who rolled his eyes but then laughed. "This is ridiculous."

"Better to say ridiculous things than to talk of – "

Etienne was interrupted by an anonymous aide poking his head around the tent flap and calling: "First Champion!"

"Ah," the French boy said, his voice shaking only a little. "Yes. It is this that I meant. The Task. It is my turn. But fear not; I shall go bravely to Madame Guillotine." His mouth set in a grim line, rather spoiling what he had meant to be a joke.

"Overdramatic, isn't he?" Harry said, after Etienne had swept out of the tent to meet his fate. Neither of the girls replied.

If they had thought that the tension in the waiting tent was unbearable before, that was nothing to how it felt after Etienne's departure. It was so quiet that, had her fellow Champions not remained upright and conscious, she would have wondered whether they had stopped breathing. All three of them were still and silent, straining their ears for the slightest hint of what was going on outside between Etienne and the yellow griffin. But there was nothing. Not a murmur. No sound at all.

"Silencing charms on the tent fabric," Hermione said, flinching at how loud her voice sounded as it echoed in the dead silence.

"You have the right of it, no doubt," Nadya said, kindly, and Hermione no longer felt quite so awkward.

It was worse for both of them when Harry was called. Alternate universes and other complications aside, Hermione still thought of Harry as one of her best friends. It was awful to know that he was facing a fearsome magical creature on the other side of that thin canvas wall, where she could neither see nor hear him. At least last time she had been able to sit in the stands and watch him. And as for Nadya... the Durmstrang Champion was pacing again, her face white and strained, her emotional turmoil obvious. Did Harry have any idea how she felt? Hermione wasn't sure.

Nadya's summons came as a shock to both of them, shattering their intense focus on the absolutely nothing they could hear from the outside. Before the other witch left, Hermione called out, "Nadya!" And, when she stopped and half-turned back, added, "Good luck."

Nadya snorted, but the smile that followed looked genuine. "Thank you," she said. "You too."

And then she was gone. Hermione was alone.

Time seemed to pass even more slowly, if such a thing was possible. Hermione hadn't realised quite how comforting the mere presence of another person had been, even without exchanging a single word. Now, alone in that tent with no way to see or hear anything from outside, she felt as if she were the only person in the world. There was nothing but the grass beneath her feet, the soundproofed canvas, and the stale silent air around her. No entertainment and no distractions but her own thoughts and worries.

It was a blessed relief when the aide called for the "Final Champion".

Hermione stepped out of the tent, and was immediately hit by a wall of sound and frigid autumn air. The stands were packed with spectators who cheered enthusiastically for the Hogwarts Champion, and over this din Hermione could just about hear some official announcement, though she couldn't make out the actual words. This was her moment, and as she strode down to the judges' table, wand in hand and robes billowing in the wind, she felt a weight lift from her mind. The waiting was over. There was no point in worrying any longer. All she could do now was follow the plan she had devised and hope that it worked as it should.

The familiar rush of exam day adrenaline buoyed up her spirits as she made her bow to the judges and turned to face her challenge. A near vertical cliff rose out of the ground not far away, perhaps thirty feet long and seventy feet high. At the top would be the griffin's eyrie, the golden egg... and a doubtless angry and territorial white griffin. Acquiring the golden egg would be a difficult and dangerous feat in itself – but first she had to get there. Looking up as she stood at the foot of the cliff, she wondered if Harry had tackled this obstacle with the help of a broom.

Not that that was an option for her. Instead, she cast an _Incarcerous_ spell on a pebble and tied the resulting loose rope around her waist before levitating one end and tying it around the most solid thing she could find at the top. Then, with a dramatic flourish of her wand, she set about Transfiguring the surface of the rock face into a stone ladder. She heard a gasp from the crowd, probably the Ravenclaw section; it was a complicated and very draining piece of magic. There were more economical ways to have the same effect, but Hermione was well aware that this was a contest. Being efficient and effective wasn't enough; she would need to be impressive if she wanted to win.

She had to admit that it was just as well that her plan didn't involve casting any particularly difficult spells at or on the griffin, though.

After a quick semi-circular wand motion to ensure that her rope always had a safe amount of slack, Hermione pocketed the wand and began to climb the ladder. This would be the hardest part of the Task, physically speaking. A seventy foot ladder was no joke. She kept moving upwards doggedly, in spite of the strain on her muscles and the conviction that she must look ridiculous to her audience. Hand up, foot up, hand up, foot up – over and over until her limbs were shaking with exertion and her breathing was heavy and laboured. It suddenly occurred to her that perhaps there was a charm that would allow her to walk on the cliff wall as though it were the ground, and perhaps that would have been a better choice.

But it was much too late for such thoughts to do any good, and soon enough she was dragging herself over the top of the ladder and onto the sparse turf that surrounded the eyrie. She had just enough time to note that her rope had tied itself around a small tree – this was a very realistic fake cliff top – before she heard an ear-splitting screech, and turned to face the griffin.

It was angry – no, enraged – by her presence, she could see that easily enough. Pristine white feathers bristled as the griffin's cruelly sharp eagle beak snapped in her direction. The haunches of a pure white lion bunched under the creature, betraying its intent to pounce. Hermione's throat was dry and tight with fear, and she was sure that she was visibly shaking. She managed to move away from the edge of the cliff without drawing the griffin to attack, but she knew that she would never get close enough to get the golden egg without somehow subduing the viciously protective mother.

She drew her wand for just long enough to sever the rope around her waist, then stowed it away again. If all went according to plan, she wouldn't need to use it. Slowly, very slowly, she took a measured step towards the nest.

The griffin spread its wings, screeched out a challenge, and charged.

Hermione's heart was racing. She could hear it echoing in her ears, feel it trying to escape her chest. Every instinct in her body told her to flee, or else to fight – but her intellect overruled them. Instead, conscious of how close the griffin was, and how deadly its beak and claws were, she opened her arms wide and bowed deeply and respectfully towards the proud creature. She could hear it rushing nearer, could imagine the agony of talons closing in her flesh, but Hermione held her ground.

The moment passed when the griffin would have skewered her, and she was just beginning to breathe a sigh of relief when she felt something hard rest against her head. A faint sound told her that it had to be the griffin's beak. The creature was investigating her. Still suppressing the urge to run, Hermione remained perfectly still until the pressure of the beak was removed. Then, and only then, did she straighten up and look the beast in the eye.

"I don't mean you any harm," she said, loudly and clearly, maintaining steady eye contact with the griffin. The creature stared back at her, its head cocked slightly to one side, its sharp black eyes boring into hers. Hermione stood very still and tried not to blink or fidget. She couldn't risk doing anything that the griffin might see as disrespectful while it was still in the process of evaluating her. "I promise I won't hurt you – or any of your young," she added, a little desperately, thinking that the mother was probably more afraid for her eggs than for herself.

After an agonisingly long wait, the large white eagle's head dropped in a slight bow, and the great beast took two steps back to give her space. Hermione let out a deep sigh of relief that her gamble had paid off. Like hippogriffs, griffins could understand human speech – not the words, but the meaning behind them. Buckbeak hadn't known exactly what Malfoy had said about him, but he'd known well enough that it was an insult. And griffins were still more powerful in this respect: a griffin didn't just understand a human's words, but could tell whether or not they were truthful. The white griffin had detected that Hermione was honest in her intention to cause no harm, and so it had decided to back down.

Now for the most difficult part. "I need to approach the eyrie." The beady eyes were fixed on her once more, and Hermione felt a shiver pass down her spine. "There is an egg in your nest that does not belong there. That's the one I want to take. I won't take or damage any of _your_ eggs." She held her breath and waited while the griffin continued to look at her, knowing that it was weighing her words and judging the truth of them. She knew when it had made its decision; the piercing eyes blinked, and then the griffin backed away, allowing Hermione access to the nest.

The crowd was well below her, but she imagined that she could hear the rumbling sound of several hundred stunned murmurs echoing through the stands. Hermione smiled a little, though her nerves had not subsided completely, stepped forward towards the eyrie and looked inside. The griffin eggs that rested there were large and white, shimmering in the light of the November sun. They were coated in a glittery substance that had led fanciful wizards in times gone by to believe that they shone with the pure essence of magic. The theft of eggs to extract this supposed power had once been widespread and, while it was now illegal, the griffins still remembered. No wonder the mothers defended their nests with all the strength and fury they could muster.

Compared with the true eggs, the golden egg seemed cheap and gaudy. But that was what Hermione had come for, and so she picked it up and cradled it against her chest, stepping away from the nest as soon as she could. The griffin had been very patient and generous so far, but it was better not to stretch the point. As she passed, she held out the false egg for the griffin to inspect, then bowed and said, "Thank you." The creature bowed in return, before turning away and returning to the eyrie, ignoring Hermione's continued presence on the cliff top.

Shaking her head, she decided to apply herself to getting back down. She knotted the conjured rope back around her waist, cast a couple of safety spells, and walked backwards off the edge of the cliff. _That_ gasp was definitely real and not a figment of her imagination, but this time Hermione was in no danger. Muggles abseiled all the time, and without any of the protective charms she'd just used. Honestly, how did this crowd expect her to get down? She had no intention of climbing back down the ladder. Once had been enough.

And then she was at the bottom, safely on the ground again. Hermione Vanished the rope and walked towards the table of judges, her eyes glowing with triumph as she clutched the golden egg.

The applause was deafening.

As she drew closer to the judging panel, the elation began to fade, and Hermione grew more and more self-conscious under the eyes of the entire school. By the time she stood in front of the table, she had to fight the urge to hide her face. She'd always wanted to be recognised for her skills and knowledge – but now that she had that recognition, she found it all rather overwhelming. Much as she usually despised the man, it came as a great relief to her when Minister Fudge silenced the crowd and began to speak.

"And now, after that very _interesting_ method of dealing with her griffin, the judges are to present their scores for the Hogwarts Champion, Miss Hermione Granger!" Hermione held her breath. She already knew that her approach would not have impressed a sportsman like Bagman, but what of the others? It had seemed like a foolproof plan, but did that make it too dull to score highly, even though neither she nor the griffin had been harmed?

And there was Barty Crouch Snr., fulfilling the same role as a judge for the Tournament despite the presence of the Minister. He raised his wand, thought for a moment, and then shot a large 9 into the air. Of course; Crouch favoured intelligence and efficiency. Madame Maxime went next, awarding Hermione another 9, accompanied by an indulgent smile. Perhaps that was her love of magical creatures showing. Then Bagman, whose score was a 7, which seemed harsh and unpleasant to her despite not being all that surprising. Dumbledore's score was a third 9, and an insufferably smug-looking Karkaroff finished the scoring with an 8 and a triumphant smirk.

"The total for Hogwarts is 42!" Fudge announced, beaming as though the points had been awarded to him. Riotous applause once more shook the stands, and Hermione saw Kingsley Shacklebolt give her a little nod of approval. "And now that all of the scores have been awarded, all four Champions must approach the judges, as there is an important announcement to be made about the Second Task!"

Hermione was happy to see that no lasting harm had come to any of her competitors – and happy to have someone to share the limelight with. Though it was a little awkward when, apparently caring nothing for the opinions of the many onlookers, Harry grasped her forearms and growled, "Were you trying to give me a heart attack, woman?" Then he pulled her into a brief yet bone-crushing hug before taking his place in the lineup of Champions. Nadya, having observed this, raised an eyebrow at her, but Hermione only shrugged and looked away, feeling a little exasperated. Honestly, couldn't a boy and a girl be friends _without_ everyone suspecting that there was something more?

Then Fudge was speaking again. "After the First Task, the rankings stand thus: in first place, with forty-four points, Nadya Zinchenko of Durmstrang!" No wonder Karkaroff had looked so pleased with himself. "In second place, with forty-two points, Hermione Granger of Hogwarts!" Hermione smiled and bowed, and tried to tell herself that she wasn't disappointed by the result. "In third place, with forty-one points, Harry Potter – also of Hogwarts!" Harry slung his arm around Hermione's shoulders and waved up at the crowd in a show of smiling solidarity, which the spectators seemed to appreciate.

"And finally, in fourth place, with thirty-nine points, Etienne Lefèvre of Beauxbatons!" Etienne gave what Hermione had always thought of as a Gallic shrug – and found it amusing to see from an actual Frenchman – and adopted a philosophical air about his defeat. He seemed to be favouring one leg; perhaps that explained the comparatively lower score.

Once the applause and cheering had died away, Fudge spoke again. "Now for the announcement about the Second Task. The egg that you each retrieved from the nest of your griffin contains a clue that, if correctly solved, will inform you of the nature of your next Task. You have until 25th February to solve the clue and make ready for the challenge. I wish you all the best of luck with your preparations."

Hermione had suspected that this would be the case from the moment that she'd heard about the golden egg, but she wasn't all that sure about the clue itself. The First Task had been different, so who knew what the Second would be? It was unlikely to be the same at all – but even so, she was very careful when opening the egg. In the previous Tournament Harry's had been ear-splittingly loud and discordant, and she wanted to be ready to snap this one shut immediately if it showed any signs of similar caterwauling.

It did not.

Hermione let out a breath she hadn't even realised she'd been holding as she looked into the egg at the innocuous – and silent – clue. A small piece of gilt-edged card sat in the centre, daring her to pick it up and discover what the future held.

And so, after a suitably dramatic pause, she did.


	15. It Glitters And It Fades

**Author's Notes:** Some people commented on the lack of Draco in the last chapter. I hope this one makes up for it. We're going to Slughorn's party, because of course Slughorn would have a party right after the First Task of the Triwizard Tournament and invite all of the Champions.

You'll find out more about the clue to the Second Task next chapter; it just didn't really fit into what I was writing for this one.

I have finished Chapter 21, which was probably the hardest time I've ever had writing 4,500 words, and now have only a 6 chapter buffer. I'm going to try to claw it back up to 7 or 8 over the next few weeks, but I may still end up taking time off after Christmas.

Chapter 16 will be posted on schedule on 14th November.

* * *

**15\. It Glitters And It Fades**

"I'd almost forgotten to be annoyed with you for making Slughorn invite me to this bloody party," Draco grumbled, fiddling with the pin fastening on his robe.

It was the evening of the day after the First Task, and Professor Slughorn had decided to call the infamous Slug Club together for what he referred to as a _gathering_. Hermione had wondered if there was any way she could get out of it, but apparently the Triwizard Champions – all four of them – were to be the guests of honour. And, much as she would have liked to decline the invitation, there was something rather pathetic about Slughorn that made it difficult for her to even think about letting him down.

"If I have to go, you have to go," Hermione said, mock-sternly, brushing a last touch of Sleekeasy's onto a particularly stubborn curl. "Even if you weren't invited, I was told that I could bring a guest. And who else would I choose but you?"

"I'm sure there's a compliment in there somewhere," Draco muttered, but he couldn't stop a smile from creeping across his face. "You look nice, by the way," he said, suddenly, looking her over in a frankly appreciative way that made her wonder if perhaps the common room was warmer than usual.

"Thanks." She smiled and smoothed down the burgundy dress robes she was wearing. It had been rather shocking for her to find such an outfit – with matching shoes! – hidden at the back of her own wardrobe, but she did have to admit that the robes suited her very well, and fitted her taste far better than Lavender's almost scandalous black ones. "Here, can you help me fasten this necklace? The clasp is kind of fiddly and I can't get the right angle when I reach around."

"Of course." Draco was as obliging as always, neatly fastening the pretty necklace her mother had sent for her seventeenth birthday. She knew that, as Muggles, it was strange for her parents to think of seventeen as a big milestone, but she appreciated that they had made the effort. "It's pretty, isn't it?" Draco asked now, looking at the understated diamond pendant – and probably also her cleavage, thanks to the neckline of the robes. "You really do look lovely," he added, in an almost awestruck tone. "How on earth could I ever have _not_ noticed you?"

Hermione snorted. "Maybe you went through puberty over the summer?" she suggested, enjoying the look of cheerful mock-offence this brought to his face.

"Fine, laugh at me when I'm trying to say something nice to you," Draco said, with a sulky pout that disappeared almost immediately.

"_Trying_ being the operative word there," Hermione said, lightly, fiddling with the necklace and straightening her robes for about the fiftieth time. "You did effectively just say that it took you five years to realise that I was a girl." Despite her words, she found it comforting to know that Draco had only begun to be interested in her since she'd been... well, _her._ The Hermione who was actually supposed to be in this reality hadn't drawn his attention at all. While other people had remarked that she had changed over the summer, no one else had shown such a drastically altered response to the new her. Or, at least, not as far as she knew.

"Now you're twisting my words," Draco said, with a smile, starting to walk towards the portrait hole. "Anyway, shall we go to this terrible party? Waiting isn't going to make it any better, is it?"

"I suppose not." As Hermione followed him through the common room, she noticed that a lot of the younger students were staring at her, whispering and occasionally giggling. She found this awkward and embarrassing, and wondered if that was how her Harry had felt when under similar scrutiny. Though at least in her case the fame was based on something she could remember doing. Her method of dealing with the griffin had proven very popular with her fellow students, who saw her actions as brave, cunning or clever, according to their own dispositions. Hermione found it amusing that the same events could be seen so differently by different people.

"We can at least _try_ to enjoy ourselves." Draco reached the portrait hole and held it open for her to climb through.

"Well, of course; it's not like I _want_ to be miserable," Hermione said, dryly, and he laughed. The Fat Lady's portrait swung closed behind them, and they went down together to the room that Professor Slughorn had reserved and decorated for his very important party.

The room was slightly too small for the number of people in it, which Hermione remembered was supposed to be a good thing for ensuring the success of a party. Most of the guests were current students, people who had been picked out by Professor Slughorn, using some set of criteria that Hermione didn't fully understand. The other Champions were already in attendance, Etienne deep in conversation with Michael – whose father was a successful designer of racing brooms, according to Draco – while Nadya and Harry stood together, talking as though nobody else was in the room.

Much as she didn't want to intrude on their private moment, Hermione _did_ want to talk to Harry, so she and Draco made a beeline for the pair. Neither of them seemed all that annoyed by the interruption – and Harry at least wasn't anywhere near diplomatic enough to hide it if he was – so Hermione assumed that they really were happy to see her. "How's the boring party going?" she asked, idly, snagging two glasses of non-alcoholic punch from a nearby table and handing one to Draco.

Harry laughed. "I don't think it's been boring at all." Nadya looked pleased at this. "But then Slughorn hasn't forced me to talk to any of his successful and influential former students yet." He looked warily around the room. "Anyway, well done on the Task yesterday; I don't think I've said that yet, have I?"

"No. After the Task you were more preoccupied with telling me off for frightening you." Hermione nearly laughed at his patently insincere look of shame. "I wish I'd been able to watch you. Or at least _one_ of the others."

"Potter did some very impressive flying," Draco said, with very deliberate politeness and a forced-looking smile. He was probably telling the truth, at least if Harry was as good at flying in this world as he was in the other.

"Coming from you, that's quite the compliment," Harry replied, grinning; apparently he was prepared to play nice for Hermione's sake. The Gryffindor Seeker smiled and nodded to his Slytherin counterpart. "I've talked to a few people here," Harry went on. "They all have so many achievements and accomplishments, and they're ready to help a fellow Slug Club member get on in life in all sorts of ways. It's all remarkably Slytherin, really. Though Slughorn_ is _a Slytherin, so maybe I shouldn't be surprised."

"This must be Professor Slughorn's exotic butterfly collection," Hermione muttered, looking around the room at the guests in their fine, brightly coloured robes.

Draco heard her and laughed. "Well, let's hope he doesn't try to fix us in place with a giant pin."

"That _would_ be rather unpleasant." Hermione snorted at the mental image this presented. Then, realising that Nadya hadn't said anything since she and Draco had come over to interrupt, she spoke to the Durmstrang Champion. "I don't know – I mean, no one has told me – what it was that you did to get past your griffin, Nadya."

"Ah, but of course; everyone here would want to talk about _you_, or possibly Harry." Nadya rolled her eyes. "I simply bound the griffin away from the nest with a Chain Binding Hex."

"And that was strong enough to hold it?" Hermione had considered a similar idea before settling on her own approach, but she'd been put off by concerns about the safety and efficacy of the method.

"I found a modified version of the spell," Nadya said. "It is stronger than the usual one, and often used for handling dangerous beasts."

"Oh. I wonder why I didn't find that. It's not like I didn't look." Hermione frowned, feeling the unintentional insult to her research skills, though she didn't really regret the way she had chosen to handle the griffin.

Nadya gave her a lopsided smile. "Ah. Well, we at Durmstrang have access to some different books to you, and not all of them are Dark." She was obviously aware of her school's reputation among British wizards, but didn't seem particularly bothered by it. "Still, you did well enough without them, I thought."

Hermione laughed. "Thank you. I think." With a wry expression, she added, "Though when it came to the critical moment I wondered if I'd been insane when I'd come up with the idea."

"Yeah, that was how I felt," Harry said, shoving her gently in a show of annoyance that, as it was obviously based in his affection for her, didn't bother Hermione at all. "Of course, I didn't know griffins could sense truth, so I had no idea what you thought you were doing."

"Just decided to wing it without any research, didn't you, Potter?" Draco smirked.

"You could put it like that," Harry said, shrugging. "But when you're the best in the school at catching small golden objects from a broom, why bother with any other approach?" He jutted his chin forward and glared at Draco, the challenge in his words obvious.

Before Draco could take exception to Harry's claim of being the better Seeker – really, boys were so predictable – Hermione took her boyfriend's arm and said, "I think we should go and greet Professor Slughorn, don't you, Draco?" She scowled at Harry, showing her displeasure without any words at all. He looked down at his feet as though ashamed, but she doubted that he really was.

"Oh, very well," Draco said, with a long-suffering sigh. "Might as well get it over with, I suppose." He threw a pointed glare at Harry, one that clearly communicated _this isn't over_, but allowed himself to be led away without any objection. Once out of earshot, however, he said, "I don't understand how you can be friends with Harry Potter of all people. I mean, really, what do you like about him? What _is_ there to like about him?"

Hermione wasn't really sure how to answer that, having no idea why her counterpart had been friends with this Harry. She knew her own reasons, but they were hardly something she could offer Draco as an explanation. Despite having a guardian who was an Unspeakable, he would surely think her mad. In the end, she simply shrugged and said, "Are you sure you're not just upset because he insulted your Quidditch skills just now? Really, Harry isn't that bad. He even complimented you earlier, remember?"

"Oh, come on, Hermione, you know I didn't just mean this one conversation," Draco said, scornfully. "He's just awful all round. And you _know_ he has nothing but contempt for people like you."

"You mean Muggle-borns?" Hermione couldn't pretend that this didn't bother her, but she had spent enough time in this Harry's company to know that things weren't as simple as Draco made out. "I know he _says_ some terrible things – and don't think I don't give him a hard time about it – but I think that he feels he _has_ to. His position in Slytherin was pretty precarious before he was chosen as a Champion, you know." She wasn't entirely sure that it was any more secure now, though Harry certainly seemed to _think_ that it was.

"Yeah, but he hates his _mother_, doesn't he?" Draco said, a note of incredulity in his voice. Hermione could well imagine that this would seem like an unforgivable character flaw to someone who had never known his own mother.

"I... don't think so." While she knew that Harry didn't _respect_ the woman who had been Lily Evans Potter, she wouldn't have said that the feelings he did have for her amounted to _hatred_. "I think he hates his stepfather, and so he resents his mother for marrying the man. But I don't think he hates _her_." Belatedly it occurred to her that Harry might not want her to share so much about his personal life with someone he didn't even like – but it was important to her that her boyfriend think well of her friend. Even if that was a very unlikely outcome, she still felt that she had an obligation to _try_.

"Mm, well, I suppose I shall have to take your word for that," Draco said, which was honestly a better reaction than she'd expected. "Ah, and here's our host. Good evening, Professor Slughorn."

The portly teacher smiled benevolently at them. "Mr. Malfoy, Miss Granger, what a pleasure to see you." There was nothing in his manner to show that he had only invited Draco on sufferance, and Hermione almost felt guilty for abusing the good will of this unexpectedly gracious man. "Do help yourselves to some punch – oh, I see you already have. I hope you find it agreeable? Non-alcoholic, of course, unless someone has spiked it already." He lifted his own glass to his lips and added, "I have secured some of Rosmerta's finest claret for myself, but I thought it might not be wise to share it with the students."

"Almost certainly not," Hermione replied, absently, her mind running over the discovery that Professor Slughorn was drinking from a different bottle to everyone else – and that he'd both drawn attention to the fact _and_ offered a plausible excuse for it. She knew that it was seldom a good idea to make assumptions or jump to conclusions, but he _was_ the most likely person to be the enemy agent within Hogwarts' walls. And there had to be such an agent; Harry's selection for the Tournament proved it.

Professor Slughorn, of course, was completely unaware of Hermione's thoughts. "I'm glad you agree, Miss Granger," he said, cheerfully, taking another sip of his wine. "Now, I do take great pleasure in facilitating _useful_ friendships between my current students and those who were previously members of my little club." He paused, looking speculatively at Draco, but quickly rallied and went on, "I believe you are a keen Quidditch player, Mr. Malfoy. Perhaps you would care to meet Gwenog? I believe that she will be here tonight."

"Gwenog Jones?" Draco sounded more than a little shocked by the offer. "Oh, of course... it would be wonderful to meet her. Although I'm not sure if I'd want to pursue Quidditch as a _career_." Despite these sensible words, his eyes were bright with anticipation, and Hermione was sure that, if anyone ever made him an offer to play professionally, he would accept in a heartbeat. He was no less silly about the sport than Harry and Ron.

Slughorn smiled indulgently, apparently having come to the same conclusion as Hermione. "Indeed, Mr. Malfoy, you would do well to keep your options open. There is no reason to commit to a particular career path at sixteen. But it can do no harm for you to meet her." He waved at a tall and extremely intimidating-looking woman, who nodded and politely disentangled herself from her conversation before crossing the room to join them. "Ah, Gwenog, my dear. I hope you have been enjoying yourself?"

"Takes me back, this does," Gwenog Jones said, her words obscured by an attractive but very thick Welsh accent. Hermione noticed with some amusement that she hadn't actually answered the question.

"Ah, that it does." Professor Slughorn seemed happy enough with what she _had_ said. "Now, Gwenog, I thought you might want to meet the Hogwarts Triwizard Champion, Hermione Granger?"

"Charmed," Gwenog said, holding out a callused hand for Hermione to shake. "Heard what you did with the griffin yesterday. Must've took a lot of nerve. You ever think about being a Beater?" She grinned, and her enthusiasm was so infectious that for a crazy moment Hermione actually thought about it.

The next moment she let out a nervous laugh. "I'm not great at flying, honestly," she confessed.

"Reckon it's not for everyone," Gwenog replied, good-humouredly.

At this point, Professor Slughorn decided to give the conversation a little nudge in a particular direction. "We can't all be blessed with your talent, can we? Ha ha, no, indeed." He put a hand on Draco's shoulder and pushed him forward a little. "Oh, and speaking of talent, have you met Draco Malfoy, here?"

Hermione wasn't a fanciful person, but she could have sworn that the air temperature dropped by several degrees as Gwenog transferred her gaze to Draco. "The Death Eater's whelp, is he?" she asked, in a very dark tone.

Before Hermione could say anything to defend Draco, he took it upon himself to do so, saying, "Seeing as I never knew my father, I can't see how that's a fair thing to judge me on, Ms. Jones."

Gwenog stared at Draco in some sort of shock, as though the thought had never occurred to her before. Hermione's mind was whirring. She'd figured that something had happened to Draco's parents, given that he'd been raised by Sirius, but that Lucius Malfoy was a known Death Eater still surprised her. He'd been so very respected in her own world, a _close personal friend_ of the Minister. Then again, perhaps he'd exposed his true nature by taking part in some ill-advised and high-profile attack – years ago, since Voldemort had yet to return to power here.

Once Gwenog had summoned the wit to speak, she changed the subject entirely. "So the Professor says that you're talented?"

Draco frowned at the sudden about-face, but then his face cleared. "I don't know about that," he said, far too modestly in Hermione's opinion. "I'm a pretty good Seeker, but I wouldn't say that I'm particularly noteworthy. I just wanted to meet you, really." Whether he was regretting his wish now was unclear.

"A fan? Don't get an awful lot of male fans." Gwenog smiled, but there was a faint edge of scepticism to it. "Mostly girls and women who support the Harpies. Probably not all that surprising, really."

"I admire talent in anyone," Draco said, with as much dignity as he could muster. "And the Harpies are an exciting team to watch."

"Ah, well," Gwenog said, in what she probably _thought _was a modest manner. "I'm glad you think so. I've always said that women make better and more interesting players."

A muscle twitched in Draco's jaw, but he seemed to know better than to contradict a woman like Gwenog Jones. The two began to talk about Quidditch plays and players, and Hermione rapidly lost track of the conversation. She was just wondering if it would be okay to leave them to her own devices when she felt a hand on her shoulder.

"You don't really care for Quidditch, do you, Miss Granger?" It was Professor Slughorn, looking at her sympathetically.

"No, not at all." Hermione spoke quietly, not wanting to offend either of the Quidditch fanatics – but, then again, Draco already knew her opinion, and Gwenog Jones seemed unlikely to care about anyone else's opinion on anything. "It's just... never really been my thing."

"Nor mine," Professor Slughorn said, though with a proud smile at the oblivious Gwenog. "So what is it that interests you, my dear? What do you see as your future career?"

They moved a little away from Draco and Gwenog so as not to disturb them from their discussion about – or, in her case, ridicule of –the other teams in the League. Hermione shook her head. _Quidditch_. "I'm not entirely sure," she said, quite truthfully. "I'd considered becoming an Unspeakable, like Sirius – Sirius Black, you know, Draco's guardian – but I'm still looking into the idea of becoming an Auror."

"After yesterday's performance I don't doubt that you have the required courage," Professor Slughorn said, smiling. "And a former pupil of mine is here tonight, as it happens. You could talk to him. I'm not sure where he's got to. Kingsley Shacklebolt, his name is – oh, you know him?" For Hermione had started with surprise as soon as she had heard the name.

"We've met," she said, faintly, wondering what on earth was going on. Kingsley was at Hogwarts far too often for it to be a coincidence. Was he investigating Professor Slughorn too? He had almost certainly been trying to examine the Goblet of Fire when she'd encountered him for the first time in the Entrance Hall. But how did _he_ know what was going on? Had Sirius confided in him? Or had the Unspeakable simply let a few clues slip, leaving the Auror to put them together and come to the correct conclusion?

"Ah, excellent," Professor Slughorn beamed. "You will of course recognise him when you see him. He's very... distinctive, isn't he?" Hermione wasn't sure, but she thought that this was Slughorn's delicate way of referring to the fact that Kingsley was black without actually saying the word. Her grandfather did things like that, and he and Slughorn were likely about the same age.

"I'm sure I'll recognise him," Hermione said, carefully, and then politely excused herself to look for the Auror. She did indeed have some questions for the man, though she doubted that they were anything that Slughorn would expect.

It was fortunate that Kingsley was not only _distinctive _but also very tall; she soon located him not far from the refreshments table. He had his back to the room, but Hermione approached from the side and so had a perfect view when he reached into the pocket of his robes and drew out a silver hip flask. She watched with her mouth open as he added a dash of the contents to a glass of punch, which he then drained. A hip flask! What could it contain? Polyjuice Potion? Had she been wrong all along?

Perhaps she made a noise, because at this point Kingsley turned and saw her. There was a brief flash of surprise and what she thought might be panic in his eyes, but then he gave a rueful smile and waved her over. Fighting down her trepidation, Hermione approached the Auror and stood in front of him, looking at him with reproachful eyes.

"So you caught me," he said, almost laughing despite his guilty expression. "But what was I supposed to do? Old Slughorn is hoarding all of the alcohol for his own use."

Hermione frowned. "So... what was in the flask?"

"Here." Kingsley reached into his pocket again and handed the flask to Hermione. She unscrewed the cap and sniffed the contents, almost sneezing when the strong alcoholic fumes burned her nose. "Brandy," Kingsley explained. "You add it to the punch and it makes this hellish party bearable."

"Hm." Hermione took a swig of the liquid, just in case – and nearly choked on it. The brandy was even more potent than she'd expected. And, more to the point, she hadn't turned into Kingsley Shacklebolt. It obviously wasn't good brandy, but it wasn't Polyjuice Potion either. "I think you're a lot braver than I am, to drink this stuff."

"It was that or deal with a Slug Club meeting sober," Kingsley said, dryly.

Hermione narrowed her eyes at him. "So why did you come?"

"I've been wondering that myself," the Auror said, his tone deliberately light. When he saw that Hermione was not about to let him get away with dodging the question, he sighed and said, "Look, there's something strange going on here. That's all I can really tell you."

"Oh, I know _that_," Hermione said. When Kingsley frowned at her, she shrugged. "There are _four_ Champions in the _Tri_wizard Tournament. I think that might be the _definition _of 'something strange going on'."

"I take your point," Kingsley replied. "That raised my suspicions, especially since apparently nothing can be done about it, and so I'm here to keep an eye on things. Even if that means accepting one of Slughorn's invitations."

"Right." Hermione looked at the Auror steadily, her mind racing. What did he know? What did he suspect? Why had he _really_ involved himself in this? Had he told her the truth or just a tangle of pretty lies?

And, as he looked back, Kingsley Shacklebolt asked himself more or less the same questions about her.


	16. Words You Choked On

**Author's Notes:** I know it's a little bit late, but here it is at last. It ends on something of a cliffhanger, so I suppose it's just as well that you'll only have to wait thirteen days rather than fourteen for the continuation.

Chapter 16 answers a question that several people have asked, and I hope that the answer satisfies those of you who were curious. Part of the tale is based on an Agatha Christie novel of which I'm rather fond. From here we have something of an emotional rollercoaster leading all the way up to Chapter 20 – all of which I should be able to get posted before the end of 2015.

I just about finished Chapter 22 this week, but it my defence it is rather long (at least 1,000 words longer than this chapter). If I can get through 23 and part of 24 next week then I _might_ have a chance of getting back on track with my writing schedule.

Chapter 17 will be posted on 28th November.

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**16\. Words You Choked On**

In the weeks that followed, Hermione had a lot to think about – but absolutely no spare time to do so, as her schoolwork had not only caught up with her, it was threatening to crush her. She had _nearly_ failed to get an O for her last History of Magic essay, which with Remus Lupin as her teacher was practically criminal. Not for the first time, she wondered how on earth a _seventh year_ Triwizard Champion was supposed to manage this, given that the second year of the N.E.W.T. program had to be even harder than the first. Hermione was having quite enough trouble already, without adding the extra pressure of studying for the final exams of her magical education.

She'd never struggled with work before, not once. It was a new experience for her, and not a particularly welcome or exciting one. Hermione knew, though, that she had only herself to blame for it; preparing for the First Task had distracted her from what was really important. The thrill of being a Champion had gone to her head, and she'd forgotten all about her colour-coded homework planner. If Harry and Ron could see her now, they'd laugh their heads off – and she'd deserve the ridicule, too.

And so, for the first couple of weeks after Professor Slughorn's party, she was far too busy making sure that all of her work was up to date to think about the mystery that was Kingsley Shacklebolt. She didn't even have time to think about the riddle clue that would tell her what the Second Task was, though she _had_ already realised that it would be completely different to what she remembered. Not that _that_ came as any sort of surprise after the First Task.

By the beginning of December, Hermione was mostly up to date and had at least a little free time, and so she decided to seek out Professor Snape and ask for his assistance with both mysteries. There was only one problem with this plan, and that was that Draco wanted her to spend time with him instead. Which was not an idea she disliked – quite the contrary, in fact – but she had things to discuss with Snape that she couldn't tell Draco. Not without giving away the secret of her existence here. So, while she might _want_ to let him distract her from her problems, she knew that she couldn't afford to.

"Surely whatever it is can wait, Hermione?" How his voice could make her shiver while saying the most banal things, she had absolutely no idea.

It would have been so easy to give in to temptation, but she steeled herself against his disappointment. "I wish it could," she said, sadly. "But I have to get all of my work out of the way before I can do anything else."

Draco snorted. "Work before play, is that it?" He looked at the pile of closed books in front of her. "But I thought you were done with all of your essays for the moment?"

Hermione sighed. "I am, but I need to work on solving the riddle that was in the egg. I've hardly looked at it since the day of the First Task."

"I could help you with it," Draco insisted. "There's no need to bother Severus. Or... I could come with you, if you want his opinion as well."

That didn't suit Hermione's plan at all. "You know that you'll only distract me," she said, with some reluctance, though she tried not to show too much of it. "And knowing you, if you accompany me to see Sev – uh, Professor Snape, we won't get there at all. It's so easy to get sidetracked, isn't it?" Draco lowered his eyes as if ashamed, but Hermione wasn't fooled. She knew that he could hardly argue that she was wrong; too many trips to the library had somehow got diverted from their original purpose into something very different.

"I suppose that's a good point," Draco grumbled. "Come find me when you stop being so sensible."

"I'm always sensible," she replied, though she knew it wasn't true – and the gleam in Draco's eye reminded her that he knew it, too. "I'll try not to take too long, okay? I _do_ want to spend some time with you tonight."

"I know." He smirked. "I look forward to it."

She rolled her eyes at his suggestive tone, but still took the time to kiss him – on the cheek; she didn't want to allow him the opportunity to make her regret her decision – before she left the common room and headed for the dungeons. It had been quite a while since she'd visited Professor Snape's office; in fact, she suddenly realised that she hadn't been there since the First Task. Her mountain of work had left her with no time to talk to her ally in researching dimensional travel. She was sure that if he or Sirius had found anything important, they would have told her, but she still wanted to find out what they'd been up to in the last nearly three weeks.

She stopped in front of Professor Snape's office door and knocked firmly on the polished wood.

"Come in; it's not locked." The reply came so promptly that Hermione knew even before she opened the door that the Professor would be sitting behind his desk, probably marking essays. "Ah, Miss Granger. I have been expecting a visit from you for at least a fortnight, but I can only suppose that you have been too busy." He gave a faint smile. "Or, at least, that was the conclusion I came to, given that every one of your recent essays has been within two feet of the requested length." His eyes glittered with amusement at her expense, but Hermione couldn't bring herself to take offence.

"I spent too much time researching griffins for the First Task, and not enough doing my class work," she admitted. "I've had to spend the last two weeks just catching up. It's been driving me mad."

"What with taking seven N.E.W.T. level subjects and competing in the Triwizard Tournament, I am rather surprised that you're coping as well as you are," Professor Snape said, waving her to the chair opposite his desk. "Or, at least, I _would_ be surprised, if I didn't know you."

Hermione ducked her head, both pleased and slightly embarrassed by the implied compliment. "Thank you, sir," she said, politely. "It took longer than I wanted, but I've finally got things back under control." She sat on the indicated chair and smoothed her robes down over her knees. "I wanted to ask your opinion on a couple of things, Professor."

"Ah." Snape put his marking quill down on the desk. "About the Second Task, I suppose?"

Hermione nodded, then frowned slightly and said, "Yes. Or, well, partly that. It's just... the golden egg from the First Task contained a riddle about the Second, and I'd appreciate your opinion on what it means. I haven't really made any serious attempts to solve it, yet, but from what I've deduced so far it isn't the same as it was in my fourth year."

"No, I suppose it wouldn't be," Professor Snape said, picking up his quill and tapping it on the desk in an absent-minded fashion. "After all, you expected a dragon for the First Task, and what you got was a griffin. Although there _was_ still a golden egg to collect, so perhaps this version of the Second Task will have some similarity with the one you saw. Perhaps if you reminded me what that involved?"

"Oh... well, someone important to the Champions was taken hostage by merpeople and they had an hour to stage a rescue before they'd be "lost forever". Or that was what the rhyme said, at least, but the Headmaster told us afterwards that no one had ever been in any real danger. He seemed to be on friendly terms with the merfolk, so I suppose they probably wouldn't _really_ have killed anyone." Though she was far from sure about that. The danger posed to hapless humans by merfolk was one of the few things that Muggle legends had managed to get right.

"So, there was a daring and dramatic rescue, but it was all underwater?" Snape asked, his voice very dry. "That seems rather unfair to the spectators."

Hermione snorted. "And fighting a griffin atop a fifty foot high cliff isn't? I'm surprised anyone knew what was going on, though maybe they used Omnioculars, like the spectators at the Quidditch World Cup." She thought about that for a moment and said, "Actually, Quidditch is a pretty horrible sport for spectators too. Are all magical sporting events like that? It seems silly to me."

Professor Snape's mouth twitched slightly. "You forget, Miss Granger, that I am no great sports enthusiast myself. I leave that to Sirius and Draco. When they start conversing about Quidditch, I simply smile and nod, and think about something else entirely. It is as inexplicable to me as it is to you – although, of course, the supremacy of the Slytherin Quidditch team _is_ of great interest to me. One does not actually have to care about the sport itself to enjoy scoring points over Gryffindor, you understand."

"Of course," Hermione said, remembering the near-fanaticism with which both Professors McGonagall and Snape had always approached the Quidditch Cup. "And Neville and I usually tune out Draco and Lavender whenever they start talking about Quidditch."

"It is generally the only way to survive such an encounter," Snape said, gravely. "Arguing that Quidditch is entirely irrelevant in the grand scheme of things never seems to go over well."

"I suppose that means you've tried to convince them of that?" Hermione asked, smirking – though she remembered having done so herself on several occasions. At this point she realised that, while amusing, their conversation had got rather off track. "Oh, well, anyway – does the nature of the previous Second Task give you any ideas about this one?"

"Only that you will probably have to rescue someone important to you," he said, adapting to the sudden change of subject with ease. "Likely by overcoming a series of obstacles. And, of course, it will probably be equally difficult for the audience to actually watch."

"That makes sense," Hermione replied, drawing the clue card out of her pocket. "The phrasing makes it sound as if there will be several different tests – or, well, it calls them _trials_, here – to overcome. And... yes, it supports the idea that there will be a need to rescue a hostage, too... and there's a mention of some sort of 'raging guardian', which must be whatever's watching over the hostage. It makes me wonder if it'll be in a marsh or bog or somewhere like that. There are plenty of dangerous magical creatures that lurk in such places."

"I see you remember your third year Defence textbook," Professor Snape observed, with a slight smile.

"We were taught by Professor Lupin in third year," she explained. "He seemed committed to telling us about every single magical creature in existence." Except werewolves. Professor Snape had done that himself. "He was – and is – a good teacher, though he seems better placed in History than in Defence."

Professor Snape nodded. "He taught Defence here, too, but near the end of the year the Headmaster offered him the History of Magic job instead, because he finally accepted the perennial complaint that it was ridiculous to have a _ghost_ teaching a class... and, well, there are those who believe that the Defence position is cursed." He sneered. "I think that this is entirely ridiculous, and I've been trying to get Dumbledore to let me prove that the curse is fictional for years, and he's always refused. Said he didn't want to risk losing me – but this year he finally gave in. Perhaps he saw sense at long last."

"So Professor Dumbledore believes in this curse?" Hermione frowned.

"I suppose he must do." Professor Snape shrugged expressively. "I can't imagine why." He sniffed. "But never mind that now. From what you've said so far, you seem to have a good idea of what the Second Task will involve. That seems to be a solid enough basis for research and preparation. Are you unsure of your conclusion? Would you like me to examine the clue myself?"

"Well, it's usually a good idea to get a second opinion," Hermione said, and handed the clue card to Professor Snape. He frowned briefly over the words and then nodded. Smiling, she continued: "But there _was_ another reason. I saw Kingsley Shacklebolt at Professor Slughorn's party, and he as good as told me that he was there to investigate something strange. I caught him dosing his punch with brandy from a flask. I wondered if it might be Polyjuice Potion when I first saw him do it, but it definitely smelled and tasted like brandy. Horribly cheap brandy, but there's no accounting for taste."

"I suppose working closely with Fudge would drive any man to drink." Professor Snape grimaced. "That _is_ interesting, though. I wonder if he's investigating on behalf of someone at the Ministry, or just to satisfy his own curiosity."

"He didn't say." Something had bothered her about Kingsley, but she couldn't put her finger on exactly what it was.

"No, I suppose he wouldn't. Just told you not to pry, I'd wager." Professor Snape half-smiled. "The Auror Office can be frustratingly closed-mouthed when they want to be. Which is usually any time they're doing anything actually interesting."

"I wonder how he knew to investigate even _before_ Harry's name came out of the Goblet. Because he was snooping around then, too. I told you about it, remember?" The morning after she'd put her name into the fire, back when everything had been almost normal.

"The Ministry know far more than they ever let on," Snape said, darkly. Then: "Let's ask Sirius." He stood up and went over to the fireplace, took a handful of powder from a dish on the mantel, and proceeded to firecall Number 12 Grimmauld Place. Obviously Hermione could hear nothing from either side, and had to wait impatiently for several minutes before Professor Snape pulled his head out of the fire and returned to his seat, saying, "He's coming through to talk."

And no sooner had he finished saying this than the flames glowed green and expelled Sirius Black into the office. "Ah, Hermione. How goes the plot to thwart Voldemort?"

"Why, hello, Sirius. How nice to see you." Professor Snape's voice was deliberately sharp and clipped.

"Aw, come on, Severus, I was talking to you just now." Sirius smirked in a superior fashion.

"Fine, use logic on me, why don't you?" Professor Snape said, somehow managing to look disdainfully down his nose at Sirius despite remaining seated. A slight twitch at the corner of his mouth betrayed his awareness of how ridiculous his behaviour was. "At any rate, I'm glad you're here. I told you what we'd been discussing."

"Kingsley Shacklebolt, yes." Sirius walked over and sat down on the edge of Professor Snape's desk. He looked down at both of them, shooting Hermione one of his most charming smiles. "Well, I haven't spoken to many people about Hermione's theories, and certainly no one from the Auror Office." Sirius paused for a moment, looking thoughtful. "On the other hand, Shacklebolt was one of Mad-Eye's protégés, so it doesn't exactly surprise me that he would know more than he ought, or that he would conduct an investigation off the record." He shrugged. "I mean, Mad-Eye was a notorious loose cannon, and while Shacklebolt does fit the Ministry mould better than his mentor ever did, he's still unorthodox in his own way."

"So... you think his interest is legitimate, and not a part of the Death Eaters' plot?" Hermione asked, considering this to be the most – perhaps the only – important question. "I mean, is he on our side? Can we trust him?"

Sirius frowned. "If we could be sure that he was Kingsley Shacklebolt, then I would be inclined to say yes. But... can we be sure? When we know that there's the possibility of impersonation with Polyjuice, how can we really be sure of anyone?"

"That is the question, isn't it?" Professor Snape sighed. "Really, it would be easier if Sirius could say unequivocally that there was no way that the real Kingsley Shacklebolt could have found out about this. At least then we would know him to be a fraud. At present we know nothing at all, or at least not for certain."

"So what can we do?" Hermione asked, frustrated. "Nothing? Just 'wait and see' while there might be a Death Eater with easy access to Hogwarts and all of the students?"

"What else can we do?" Professor Snape asked. It irritated her to admit that this was a reasonable response. "We can either wait for the Death Eater agent to act, or we can force him to act – but I am not sure how to do the latter without putting the students in more danger." He shot Hermione a sympathetic look. "I understand how you feel, Miss Granger. I have felt the same way many times. But it is an unfortunate fact of life that sometimes there is nothing we can do but wait for our opponent to act."

"I know," Hermione replied, shortly. "But that doesn't mean that I have to like it." She looked at the ground and let out a heavy breath, before looking back up at the two men. "I'm sorry. That was childish, and none of this is your fault."

Sirius chuckled. "Like Severus said, we've both been there before." He patted her gently on the shoulder. "I don't think either of us are likely to take offence." Sirius tapped his fingernails on the essay that Professor Snape had been marking before Hermione came into the room. "But no, I'm not sure that there's anything we can do just now. Maybe you can fill me in on how my son is doing? You see much more of him than I do."

Something about his tone and his raised eyebrow struck Hermione as suggestive, and she became almost too flustered to answer coherently. "I... um, well, he seemed fine last time I saw him. Which was just before I came here. So I guess he's doing okay, you know?"

"Good," Sirius smirked, and his eyes twinkled madly. "I would go up and call on him, but no sixteen year old boy wants his father to keep visiting him at school, I'm sure. I'd have died of embarrassment if mine had shown up to see me. Well, I mean, right after I'd died of shock, given my parents pretty much disowned me after my fifth year." From that Hermione surmised that the Black parents had been much the same in this world as her own.

"Oh, I'm sorry," she said, though from the look on Sirius' face he didn't seem to be all that upset by the memory of his parents' cruelty. Then it occurred to her to ask: "I'd been wondering... I know it's awfully nosy, but would you mind explaining how it was that Draco became your son? It's just that, well, the Malfoys were alive and well in my world, but I can only assume they aren't here. And Gwenog Jones mentioned at the party that Draco's father – I mean, Lucius Malfoy – was a Death Eater."

"He was." Sirius grimaced. "One of the worst of them – though I reckon his sister-in-law, my cousin Bellatrix, was more worthy of that title. For a long time, everyone believed that Lucius and his wife Narcissa were fine upstanding members of society, but all the while he was a Marked supporter of Voldemort, and she was scarcely any better. Narcissa may have pleaded ignorance of her husband's activities – and fear of his wrath – when he was arrested, but I don't believe it. She was raised a Black, after all, and most of my family were as bad as or worse than the Malfoys. I think that she smiled on everything he did, either out of love for him or from her own lack of scruples."

Sirius took a deep breath. "I'm sorry for taking so long to get to the point, but that's who Draco's real parents were. His father was a Death Eater and his mother was my dark-hearted Black cousin. I can only imagine what he would have become if he hadn't come to me. Not someone that a decent girl like you could bring herself to love, almost certainly."

Hermione blushed at the implication, but answered promptly, thinking of the cruel but pitiable boy she had known. "You're right. He wasn't. He was a very unpleasant person."

"Ah." Sirius had gone rather pale. "I can hardly claim to have been the best father, but at least we spared him that, Severus and I." After a moment's uneasy silence, he rallied enough to continue. "But that isn't what you asked me, is it? Well, Lucius Malfoy was caught and arrested during one of the Death Eaters' disgusting revels in the Muggle world, and they sentenced him to life in Azkaban for breaking the Statute of Secrecy and torturing Muggle children." Sirius curled his lip, showing his disgust for the order of the charges. "And so then Draco didn't have a father – but his mother managed to plead her innocence, true or not, and remained at liberty. And _that's_ where it gets interesting."

"What happened next is that my cousin Narcissa died. It was apparently a suicide: poison in a glass of wine, and a handwritten note saying that she just didn't know how to go on without Lucius. But then Dawlish, who was in charge of the case, noticed several strange things about this apparent suicide, starting with a slight niggle about the note – which was written on a torn scrap of paper. There was more to the investigation than that, of course, but I won't bore you with the details. All that matters is that in the end they found out that Bellatrix Lestrange had killed her, tearing a phrase out of a letter she had received from Narcissa to give support to the idea of suicide."

"Her own _sister_ poisoned her?" Hermione was horrified. "Why would she do something like that?"

Sirius snorted and said, dryly. "You must not know my family very well, or you wouldn't be surprised. Killing one another is something of a tradition for us. Bellatrix thought that her sister wouldn't raise Draco properly, the way a "true pureblood" ought, because Narcissa had always refused to be Marked – and she was sure that _she_ would be given custody of Draco if Narcissa died. She was quite mad as well as evil, you see. But she was caught out in her scheme and sent to Azkaban, and as the third Black sister had lost contact with the wizarding world, custody was awarded to me as the closest available relation. So Bellatrix truly failed in her scheme, because I'm probably the last person in the world who would bring up a child in the acceptable pureblood fashion."

Hermione remembered the disdain with which Sirius had always spoken of his family and of pureblood society in general, and could only agree with this. "You can comfort yourself with the knowledge that he's a far better person now than his parents could ever have made him," she said, firmly, smiling at Sirius.

He gave a sharp laugh. "I can and I will," he said. "I always suspected as much, but to know for sure..." He trailed off, looking reflective again. "There was a time when I was afraid I'd lose Draco, you know. He was just five, and his mother's other sister Andromeda had just returned to our world. She had a better claim than I did, if she chose to press it, and she was a married woman with a child of her own, a daughter six years older than Draco."

"Tonks," Hermione said, quietly, thinking of the usually cheerful Metamorphmagus who had been so affected by Sirius' death.

"Yes. You know her?" Sirius seemed pleased by the mention of his cousin, and when Hermione nodded he grinned. "I think that if my given name was Nymphadora, I'd go by my surname too. Poor girl." He spared a chuckle for the thought before continuing his tale. "Anyway, I knew that Andromeda had a family to give Draco, so I was worried that she'd take him away from me. But when we finally met, she looked gravely at Draco and said only that she hoped she could be his favourite aunt. I told her that there wasn't much competition for the title, she laughed, and that was that. I shouldn't have worried so much; she always was my favourite cousin."

Hermione smiled. "And was there much competition for _that_ title?"

Sirius laughed, amused to find his words thrown back at him. "Now that you mention it, there really wasn't. The Blacks were never a particularly lovable family." He hummed under his breath, then said, "Ah, well. I suppose it's a story with a happy ending, which there were precious few of in the war."

"If you consider a story that ends with the death of one person and the imprisonment of two more to be a happy ending," Professor Snape replied, coolly. Then he sighed. "While I can't bring myself to regret that Malfoy and Lestrange got exactly what they deserved, I find it hard to celebrate the death of Draco's mother."

"You always did have a soft spot for Narcissa," Sirius remarked, with some little bitterness.

Professor Snape grimaced. "I don't deny it," he said, rather mournfully. "I have loved only two women in my life, and they each preferred another man to me. Such is my lot in life." He stared into space for a moment before shaking his head and saying, "Forgive my melancholy. For all my bad luck with women, I have been blessed with good friends."

"And heaven forbid that you ever forget it!" Sirius exclaimed, the dark mood from a moment before already forgotten. Then, in a more sober tone, he said, "I don't believe that I have ever been in love with any woman, strange as that sounds."

"That doesn't surprise me in the least. Nor would it if your son were already ahead of you in such matters." Professor Snape gave Hermione a meaningful look – and, teacher or not, she was almost moved to glare at him. "Though I do wonder, Miss Granger, why you didn't bring Draco with you this evening. I wouldn't have thought that you'd enjoy being separated from him."

"I don't," Hermione replied, a little too sharply. "But he doesn't know anything about my being from another world, so how _could_ I invite him along?"

"You haven't told him?" Sirius frowned at this revelation.

"I haven't told anyone," Hermione said. "Except Professor Snape, and I didn't really have a lot of choice about that, since he already knew too much." She glared at him as forcefully as she dared, which was not very. "I think anyone else would think I was mad if I said anything."

"What, you think Draco would?" Sirius asked, incredulously. "I mean, he lives with an Unspeakable, so he's used to hearing about things that ought to be impossible."

"You tell him about your work?" Hermione was well aware that this wasn't the point, but she didn't care.

"Not often, but yes, sometimes." Sirius shrugged. "Regardless, Draco trusts my judgement. If he knows that I believe you, then so will he."

"I... if you say so, I suppose it must be true." But that wasn't really her issue, was it? She wasn't afraid that he wouldn't believe her. She was afraid that he _would_. That he'd change the way he thought about her because she wasn't supposed to be in this reality. That he might even be offended that she hadn't told him the truth sooner. That her honesty might be the end of everything between them. "I just don't know if I can tell him," she said, quietly, her voice trembling slightly. "I don't know if I have the courage."

"Are you a Gryffindor or not?" Professor Snape returned, with a harshness that took her by surprise. Then, more gently: "You can't have a relationship based on lies. I know that only too well." The obvious regret on his face tempered Hermione's indignation at this comment, though not entirely.

"_You_ advised me to pursue him! Or at least not to be afraid to do so."

"Did you really, Severus?" Sirius frowned at his friend.

"All I said was that she shouldn't allow her uncertainty about how she got here and how long she might remain keep her from living a normal life." Professor Snape sounded affronted by the accusation.

"Given the context, what you actually _meant_ was clear enough," Hermione insisted.

Sirius narrowed his eyes and nodded. "I have to agree," he said, coolly. "Whatever possessed you to give such advice, Severus? I've never known you to do anything of the kind!"

"This is a unique situation," Professor Snape retorted. "And I will be honest; I wanted Miss Granger to have an incentive to stay here. I believed – still believe – that she will be instrumental in defeating Voldemort for good and all. And so I did not want to have to let her go."

Hermione stared. It was unthinkable that Professor Snape, who had seemed to care about her, should have been manipulating her all along. And yet she'd suspected that there was something strange about his advice, hadn't she? He'd even warned her, when they'd first met, that he didn't usually help people without an ulterior motive. She ought to have known. She had no reason to feel betrayed. But her voice still cracked slightly as she said, "The Tournament ties me here now, doesn't it? I'm magically bound to compete, so I can't go home until it's over. That's why you wanted me to enter."

Professor Snape nodded. "You are correct," he said. "It was done in the cause of thwarting Voldemort's plans – but, all the same, I am sorry."

Despite the apology, Hermione found that she couldn't look at him. Instead she turned to Sirius. "So, you think I should tell Draco about all of this?" she asked, quite as if Snape hadn't spoken at all.

"I'd feel happier if you did," Sirius admitted. "But you don't have to."

Hermione shrugged. "Perhaps you're right. It's not fair that he doesn't know, especially if he... cares about me." She smiled briefly at Sirius, pushed back her chair and stood up. "Sorry to abandon you," she said, still speaking only to Sirius. "But there's something I need to do."

She swept out of the office dramatically, though she could already feel her anger at Professor Snape receding. He wanted to defeat Voldemort, and was prepared to use any trick he could to help with that. How could she honestly hold that against him for long? By the time she reached the Gryffindor common room and gave the password to the vigilant Fat Lady, she was far more worried about Draco's reaction than anything else, and wished she hadn't left Snape's office quite so precipitously.

It was easy enough to find Draco, who seemed both surprised and pleased to see her again so soon, though the words she used to greet him quickly served to replace his smile with a distinctly worried look.

"Draco? I need to talk to you. In private. It's important."


	17. Know That This Is Real

**Author's Notes:** And now it is finally time for _that_ conversation. This was very hard to write, in the emotional sense, and at the end I was sort of glad it was over. Except that it isn't _over_, and won't be until the end of the story – but you know what I mean.

I have written the first part of Chapter 24, so I am getting a little more up to date. I do have a plan with regards to posting the next few chapters and taking January off to write, but I'll outline it in more detail next chapter.

Chapter 18 will be posted on 12th December, and will contain the Yule Ball.

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**17\. Know That This Is Real**

The Room of Requirement seemed to take Draco by surprise, replacing his anxiety with wonder, if only for a moment. "I didn't know this room was here," he breathed, looking around at the rather severe furnishings that perfectly reflected Hermione's current mood.

"Hogwarts has many secrets," was all that she would say in reply. Then she chose an austere grey leather sofa and sat down, patting the seat next to her as she looked back at Draco. "Here. We might as well be comfortable while we talk." He didn't move immediately, just stood rigid and miserable near the door into the Room. Hermione was sorry that her actions had worried him so, but she was having too much trouble mastering her own emotions to even attempt to soothe his as well. "Please, Draco," she said. "I just need to tell you something."

Draco swallowed heavily. "You know, that doesn't exactly make me feel better." He tried to laugh, but even to Hermione, who was understandably preoccupied, it sounded hollow and false. "I'm not sure that any sort of good news has ever followed those words."

Hermione wished she could comfort him, but there was nothing she could say to contradict him that would not have been a cruel lie. "I suppose that's true," she said, softly. "But please, Draco, just let me tell you. This is hard enough for me as it is."

"I... yes, alright." That Draco did not attempt to defuse the situation with an innuendo told her exactly how discomfited he was. It occurred to her that perhaps she could have found a better way to do this, but she hadn't been able to think of anything – and, besides, it was already too late for that. Draco let out a long sigh and took the seat next to her on the sofa. "Okay, I'm sitting down. Now talk."

"Right." Hermione wrung her hands together in agitation and took a deep breath. There was no easy way to say it, so why was she even trying to soften the blow? She didn't want to hurt Draco, but she'd never had the option not to. Even refusing his advances would have wounded his heart, or so she liked to think. "It's hard to explain, but..." Inspiration hit suddenly. "You know how you said I'd been different since we came back from the summer holidays?"

"Yeah?" Draco sounded even more nervous than he had before, and Hermione wondered what sort of story he imagined she was going to tell. "I didn't mean... obviously you are still the same person, it was just me being clumsy with words."

Hermione sighed and shook her head. "Intentional or not, you pretty much hit the nail on the head there." From the wide incomprehension in Draco's eyes, she knew she would have to spell it all out for him, much as she really didn't want to say the words. "I'm not the same Hermione that you knew for the first five years of school. I come from... well, the closest anyone has got to explaining it at all is as an alternate timeline or parallel dimension. I don't know how I got here or if I'll ever manage to get back, but... yeah, one day I was in my own world, and the next I was here and everything was different."

Draco was staring at her as if he'd never seen her before, and the emotion flickering behind his eyes made her shiver – and not in a good way. She wasn't sure exactly what it meant, but it scared her. Was the cold cruelty of the Malfoy family still there, lurking beneath the warmth and decency bestowed on Draco by his unconventional upbringing? What would he say? What _could_ he say to such a revelation? She could hardly expect him to be _happy_ about it. Would he sneer at her, his newly handsome face twisted back into that of the Malfoy she had known and loathed, once upon a time?

"Draco." There was a pleading note in her voice that she couldn't bring herself to be ashamed of. "Please say something."

"What am I supposed to say?" Draco asked, and the way his voice cracked as he spoke made her _wish_ that he was angry with her. "I can't imagine that you'd make something like that up; you don't make jokes, especially cruel ones like this. But I just... I just can't get my head around this."

"Yeah." Hermione snorted, though she felt more like crying than laughing. "That's how I feel about it, too, most of the time."

A brief flash of something that was almost amusement danced in his eyes. "Well, yes, I can imagine," he said, dryly. Then his countenance darkened. "But... I mean, why didn't you _tell_ me? Didn't you think I deserved to _know_?"

Hermione felt absolutely wretched. She'd expected anger, confusion, even disbelief. But this... the sense of _betrayal_ caught her completely by surprise, twisted a knife that she hadn't even known was buried in her gut. She _wanted_ him to shout at her, to rage about how goddamn irresponsible she'd been, even to scream that he didn't want to be with her anymore – _anything_, as long as it would take that stricken look from his face. The way he looked at her made her feel about half an inch tall and guilty as hell.

"I didn't tell anybody," she said, but the words came out sounding limp and unconvincing. "I mean, what could I say? It seemed like... well, I hardly believed what had happened myself, and I was _there_. Really, I suppose I thought that anyone I told would think that I was crazy."

"It does sound rather insane, I suppose," Draco conceded, though the dark look did not leave his eyes. "But I thought you'd at least trust _me_ to hear you out without jumping to conclusions. When have I ever _not_ listened to you?"

"I..." This was too difficult. While it was true that _this_ Draco was a reasonable person, the one she'd known for most of her school career had been anything but. Then again, did she really want to explain that to him? It would be nothing but needless cruelty to someone who'd been so good to her. Her breath came harsh and uneven, and she was on the edge of tears as she choked out, "I was just _scared_, okay? I didn't _know_ you, or anyone – not really, not the way they are in this world. So how was I supposed to know who I could trust with the knowledge?"

Draco stared at her. Apparently he hadn't thought about it in that light. "Oh... I suppose you couldn't know, could you?" His lips twisted into a wry smile. "It must have been terribly confusing for you to have no idea who anyone was – maybe not even who you were supposed to be." The compassion reflected in his stormy grey eyes made Hermione hate herself even more, especially when he reached out and gently squeezed her arm. "Still," he said, in a slightly harder tone. "After you did get to know me as I am here, why would you not tell me then?"

Hermione's lip trembled with barely suppressed emotion. "I told you; I was scared! I thought you might not want to be friends... or, well, more than friends if I told you, so I said nothing. And as time went on it got harder and harder, because I'm a wretched coward and I didn't want to lose what we had."

"Oh, Hermione." The tenderness in his voice was almost more than she could bear. He gently swept one of her unruly curls out of her face, and she dared to look up and see the softness and affection in his eyes as he looked back at her. "I'm sorry. I've been so selfish, only thinking of how this affects me. It must be so much worse for you, to lose all your friends and be thrown into a strange world like this." His hand moved down to caress her cheek, and she couldn't help but quiver at the simple touch. "And you're not a coward. It must have taken a lot of courage to tell me now."

"I suppose," she said, miserably. "Although... I mostly did it because Sirius pointed out that I wasn't being fair to you by keeping you in the dark."

Draco frowned. "You told my dad?" The _but not me _remained unspoken, but hung in the air between them nevertheless.

"I didn't," she assured him, quickly. "When it happened... well, it was when I collapsed in Professor Snape's classroom–"

"Oh, of _course_." He sounded much the same as she did when faced with something she thought that she ought to have figured out on her own.

"Yes, well, I collapsed and Professor Snape somehow managed to see into my mind and figure out part of what had happened. He came to visit me in the hospital wing and got the whole story out of me, then told me as much as he knew about my life and friends in this world. And then he told Sirius about it, because he's an Unspeakable and might know something about what had actually happened to me." She took a deep breath and gave a rueful lopsided smile. "No such luck, unfortunately."

"Oh." Draco blinked a few times, looking overwhelmed. His hand now rested on her shoulder. "That sounds reasonable. But you... you weren't going to tell anybody? What were you planning to do, just carry on with your life as if nothing had happened?"

"It sounds ridiculous when you say it like that," Hermione said, giving a shaky laugh despite the tears that still prickled the corners of her eyes. "But yes, I was. What else could I do? I'd never even heard of such a thing happening, and in the back of my mind I was afraid that the old world had never been anything but a dream. I didn't know what to do." His hand squeezed and rubbed her shoulder in a slightly clumsy massage that still sent shivers down her spine. She leant a little towards him in spite of herself, cursing the fact that this was a serious conversation and ought not to be interrupted.

After a moment of comfortable silence, he said, "I suppose you don't know what happened to the other Hermione, the one who... well, the one I knew."

Hermione wondered if he'd been about to say _the one who belonged here._ She felt cold all of a sudden, whether from contemplating the uncertain fate of her counterpart or the reminder that this wasn't her world, however happy she might be here. "No," she said, shortly, trying to restrain herself from leaning any further into his touch. "I mean, I don't even know what happened to _me_. How would I begin to find out what happened to her? Maybe she's living the life I had, but maybe... she's just _nowhere_. Maybe I killed her." She wanted to sob uncontrollably into his robes, but somehow managed to keep her dignity.

"Shh. It's okay." He pulled her effortlessly into his arms. "Even if that is what happened – and we don't _know_ that it is – you didn't mean to do it. It wasn't your fault. None of this is your fault."

Hermione began to cry softly, tears that burned her cheeks as they fell. She cried for everything she had lost, for her guilt and pain at having stolen another young woman's life – however unintentionally – and, as shameful as it was, there was some _relief_ there too. Draco was holding her. Despite the things she'd told him, Draco still wanted to hold her. His closeness and the warmth of his body threatened to overwhelm her senses, and even her tears and her sorrow were no defence against him.

When she finally trusted herself to speak, she pulled back a little and looked him in the eye. "Draco, I..."

"Yeah, I know." He smiled at her, then pulled her back into his chest and rested his chin on her head, cushioned by her wild curls. His arms were tight around her, and her heart beat a staccato rhythm on the inside of her ribcage. "You... I am kind of hurt," he admitted, drawing back slightly so he could look down at her as he spoke. "I understand how you felt, I really do, but it still hurts that you didn't tell me until my dad told you that you should. But then again" – and here he tried to shrug – "I know it must've been hard for you."

Hermione made a sound somewhere between a sigh and a sob. "What did I do to deserve you?" she murmured.

He laughed. "I don't know, but you came here from a whole other world to make me happy, so I guess we must be even."

"I..." Hermione swallowed the rest of her sentence. _I'll miss you._ She knew that she ought to be honest about everything, but... somehow it seemed like too much, to tell him that she and Sirius – well, mostly Sirius – were searching for a way to send her back to her own world. It would hurt him even more than what she'd already told him, and they hadn't even found anything yet, so surely there was no need to upset him over nothing? Why tell him something that she already knew was going to cause him pain? How would that do either of them any good?

_Rationalisation_, said a snide voice in her head. It sounded unpleasantly like her own world's Snape. Then she recalled the words spoken by a very different Professor Snape, only half an hour before: _You can't have a relationship based on lies. _That was true, and she knew it. She would have to tell him everything now – and if that meant that he no longer wanted anything to do with her, she would have to accept it. But knowing that didn't change the fact that she really, really didn't want to.

Almost in tears again, Hermione closed her eyes and tried to take deep calming breaths. "Draco."

"Hermione?" Something in her tone must have alarmed him, for he sounded nearly as nervous and uncertain as he had done at the beginning of the conversation.

"I should tell you... Professor Snape told Sirius about my predicament in the hope that he could help me get back to where I belong. To my own world. He hasn't found anything yet, and neither have I, but..."

"But?" His eyes were shadowed again, his arms becoming rigid and yet strangely loose around her. "What will happen if one of you _does_ find something? Will you go back? Will you... will you leave?"

There was something so desolate about his voice, in the way he said those words, and she hated herself all over again for what she was doing to him. "I..." She faltered at the steel she found in his gaze and the line of his jaw. Harry had looked like that when facing the Death Eaters in the Department of Mysteries. "Obviously I can't yet – I'm under magical contract to compete in the Triwizard Tournament..."

"But you will as soon as that's over?" His sudden coldness both surprised and frightened her.

"I don't know!" It was almost a wail. "To begin with, I really wanted to, because everything here was so strange, and because everyone I knew and loved was in the other world, my _own_ world. But now... now I've come to care for people here, too, and so I don't know what the right choice would be. Whatever I decided to do, I'd be losing something dear to me." A choice between everything good about this world, and everything that had made the old one home.

"So you were planning to leave all along, but you decided to go out with me anyway?" Draco's voice vibrated with pain, and she wished she was anywhere but there. The potent magic of the Room rippled around them, but it didn't have the power to grant her wish. It couldn't take her away from the space she was in, from the boy whose heart she was breaking. "Why did you do that, when you knew you had to go – that you _wanted_ to go? What am I to you, some sort of fucked up holiday romance?"

The shock of his blunt profanity loosened her tongue, and the words spilled out desperately. "No! No, Draco, please believe me. This isn't – _you __aren't_ – meaningless to me. I do care about you, so much that I was scared that I'd lose you if I told you the truth. I know that was stupid, but I..." _I never meant to hurt you_. Irrelevant, because she had done it anyway. _I cared about you too much_. Way to make it his fault that she was a coward. "I kind of made a mess of everything."

"You can say that again," Draco said, dryly. For a moment it seemed that the coldness and anguish had faded, but then, without warning, he let out a sharp sigh and buried his head in his hands. Blonde hair fell forwards to obscure what little she could see of his face; she wanted to reach out and brush it away, but she didn't dare touch him just then. She didn't know if she had the right. His voice muffled, he growled, "I just don't know what to do. I can't even make sense of how I feel."

He had almost completely disentangled himself from her by this point, and Hermione was torn between missing his warmth and wanting to be in a different room – perhaps in another castle. "I'm just... I would have told you before I left," she said, suddenly, feeling it to be the truth. "But there didn't seem any point in saying anything when I didn't know if there would ever be a way for me to get home." Draco looked up sharply. Hermione registered the horror on his face and hurriedly added, "Until tonight, when Professor Snape advised me not to keep any secrets from you."

"Severus said that?" Draco stared at her, obviously surprised. "He's usually the first person to advocate keeping secrets."

"I think he had his reasons," she said, remembering the haunted look on Professor Snape's face. "_You can't have a relationship based on lies. I know that only too well_." She smiled rather sadly. "That's what he said."

"I suppose he might be right," Draco said, grudgingly. "Though I'm not sure I really _wanted_ to know any of this." He shook his head slowly, looking tired and miserable. "That's not fair. I know that he was right to give you that advice, that you were right to tell me everything. Honesty is better. It just doesn't _feel_ better."

"Yeah." She hated the tightness in her throat, the way her voice caught on the word. "I'd say I was sorry, but there's only so many times I can say that before the word completely loses any meaning it might have had."

He gave a rueful snort. "I don't even know if it's you I'm angry with, really. It's just... I think it's just the whole damn situation."

"Tell me about it." Hermione knew she hadn't made the best choices, but Draco was right. It was a bad situation, and maybe nothing she could've done would have been _right_. "I don't know. I tried not to get too attached to anybody, since I knew I would probably have to leave someday, whether sooner or later. But... the heart doesn't work that way. I _couldn't_ make myself not care. About you. About Lavender. Even about Professor Snape, as strange as that might sound." She pressed her eyes closed against the onslaught of tears. "But... however long I stay here, I'll never stop missing the friends I had before. _Never_."

"Hermione... I'm so sorry," Draco said, seeming rather shaken by this.

"Don't be." His sympathy was too much for her to bear. "I still hurt you. I knew it was wrong to encourage you, but I did it anyway."

Draco pulled a face. "I'm not sure I'd have taken it any better if you'd told me all this _before_ we started going out, to be honest," he said, grimly. "It's not as if I'd have been any happier about the idea of you leaving me, being replaced by a completely different person who just happened to look the same."

This made her think about the Draco Malfoy she had known for five years – the person who, if she went back, would replace her own very dear Draco. The reminder hit her like a fist to the solar plexus. "Oh, you think you'd have it bad?" she retorted. "At least the other Hermione must be _similar_ to me."

"The differences are what made me..." He trailed off and frowned. "Wait – am I so very bad in the world you came from, then?"

"You don't want to know," she said, with an attempt at firmness.

"I asked, didn't I?" Sharp grey eyes met hers.

_So much for that._ Hermione pressed a hand against her forehead wearily. "Since you insist on knowing, he's... well, I suppose he's what you would have been, if you hadn't been raised by Sirius."

"Oh." It was barely more than a whisper.

"You've been told about your birth parents, right? He's just like them."

"Oh." She thought he might be about to cry. Then, in a strained, wondering voice, he said, "I thought you were a bit cold to me, that first week back after the holidays. No wonder. God. How did you ever want to be with me at all?"

"Because you're nothing like him." Now _she_ reached out to _him_, touching his cheek tentatively, unsure whether he would welcome the contact. He let out a long breath and closed his eyes. "He doesn't smile the way you do. I've never heard him laugh without it being at someone else's expense, and it's an ugly laugh anyway. There's no warmth in him, none at all – and I know there's no way I could ever... feel for him what I feel for you."

Without any warning, she was suddenly in his arms again, pressed tightly against his body. "Then stay here," he said, fiercely, his breath tickling her ear and making her tremble with anticipation. "Stay with me." He kissed her, his mouth hot and savage on hers, crushing her lips with bruising intensity. She didn't make any move to object. She couldn't. She didn't _want_ to. And for that moment, while she was held close and safe and loved in ways she only vaguely understood, his request seemed so very reasonable. Yes, she could stay with him. She could stay forever if only he never let go.

But he had to let go, eventually. And other thoughts had to intrude on her brief moment of perfect happiness. Reality triumphed over romance. There was no way that she could stay if the opportunity to leave presented itself. She thought of Harry and Ron, of Ginny, Neville and Luna, of the Order and the DA. People who needed her. People who, if she stayed, she would never see again. And yet... if she left, she would never see Draco again. How was she to bear _either_ of those options? Why couldn't she just have everything?

_Because life's not fair._

Hermione was really starting to hate the little voice in her head.

Though she was still in Draco's arms, her head resting against his shoulder, she felt a pang of indescribable sadness as she said, "You know I can't promise you that." She bit her lip and listened to his heartbeat as it returned to its normal pace. Then, with a frustrated sigh, she added, "I wish I could."

"I know." He curled a stray lock of her hair around his finger, almost absent-mindedly. "I don't _like_ it, but I know."

They sat like that for several minutes, wrapped up in each other, though the earlier conversation still hung over their heads like a black cloud. When the tension became too great, Hermione cast about for something that _wasn't_ horribly negative. "You know," she said, softly. "We could always follow some more of Professor Snape's advice."

"Oh?" Draco shifted slightly so he could look her in the eyes. "And what great wisdom of Severus' was this, then?"

She laughed softly and tried to brush his fringe out of his face, with little success. "Just that... no one knows how long they're going to be in the world, so we might as well all do the things we want to do while we can."

"The things we want to do?" Draco raised an eyebrow and let a faint smirk creep across his face, and for a moment it was like nothing had changed between them at all. Then he sighed. "I don't know. What happens when you go back? You'll leave, and everything we share now will be pointless."

"On a long enough timescale, _everything_ is pointless," Hermione said, tapping him very gently on the tip of the nose. "And you're talking like you'd expect a teenage romance to last forever if not for death or dimension travel."

For a moment Draco looked affronted by her bluntness, but then, quite suddenly, he chuckled. "Okay. You're right; I was being kind of melodramatic about it. I mean, I don't want to lose you, but we don't know when – or even _if_ – that will happen. So... I don't know. What do you suggest? Should we just keep going and see what happens?"

"Sounds good to me," she said, kissing him lightly. "I know I worry about the future more than most people, but maybe this time tomorrow can take care of itself. Maybe we should just enjoy the time we have."

The words sounded good as she said them, and she knew that it was the only sensible approach to take. But she also knew that, however long her time with Draco lasted, it could never be long enough.


	18. If The Melody's Just Right

**Author's Notes:** We have finally reached the Yule Ball! The events of this chapter occur on 21st December rather than the 25th, partly because I needed it to for the story, and partly because I can't credit that _all_ of the parents were fine with their children being away at Christmas. I'm nearly 30 and my mother would_ still_ be upset if I wasn't there on Christmas Day.

The story has its first fanart, a very cute piece by reader Talk With Your Hands (adorablydangerous on DeviantArt). I'd link it but apparently this site just doesn't want to let me do that, so go look at her profile, which has a whole HP Fanart section. It's just the sweetest thing, seriously.

I went to the Harry Potter Studio Tour on Thursday, and I highly recommend it as an experience. Seeing the sets and props used was quite something, and I think it will also prove inspiring. Also, Butterbeer is a great drink – but perhaps only if you have a sweet tooth!

Chapter 25 is in progress, so I haven't yet got back my 7 chapter buffer, but I expect that writing will become much faster from this point. I intend to post Chapter 19 on the 24th and Chapter 20 on the 26th, as both occur around Christmas and so it seems fitting. To avoid this eating into my buffer, the next update _after_ that will not be until 22nd January 2016. I hope you can forgive me this self-indulgence.

And now, after all of that, the chapter:

* * *

**18\. If The Melody's Just Right**

The Yule Ball.

Hermione already knew not to have any expectations at all for the event. Last time it hadn't gone as well as she'd hoped it would, even though she'd been the "date" of a famous Quidditch star. How could she expect it to be any better this time around? While at first glance her current circumstances might seem a lot more promising – at least no one was going to ask her to be their partner out of last-ditch desperation, because she was a _girl_, and so presumably _good enough_ – she knew better than to trust that her luck would continue.

She suspected that the problem might just be that she was ill-equipped to deal with a Ball; she wasn't that kind of girl, and she really didn't get the appeal of dressing up and dancing. On the other hand, Lavender most definitely _was_ that kind of girl – despite her brains and general good sense – and while she might not have said anything as insulting or humiliating as Ron had at the last Ball, she was really starting to try Hermione's patience. It couldn't be necessary to agonise quite so much over any social occasion, even the Yule Ball. Hermione was one dress robe catalogue away from screaming in exasperation and refusing to go at all.

"What on earth is wrong with the burgundy robes?" she asked, finally, when more subtle entreaties had failed. "I like them. They suit me."

"Oh, but you wore them to Slughorn's party!" Lavender sounded scandalised. Hermione couldn't find it in herself to care. "You have to wear something _new_, especially since there'll be so much focus on the Champions."

"Thanks for reminding me," Hermione muttered, wondering how on earth her life had got to this point. "I was trying to forget that everyone would be standing there _watching me dance_."

"It could be worse," Lavender said, without even a hint of remorse or apology. "At least you're being forced to dance with a handsome boy who adores you."

Hermione frowned. "And you're not?"

"Why, Hermione," Lavender said, with mock-surprise. "Do you think that Seamus is handsome? I had no idea."

"Very funny." Hermione rolled her eyes. "_You_ think he is, and that's what counts."

Lavender smirked at this, but refused to be distracted from her mission, flicking through the pages of her catalogue. "So, I'm thinking _red,_" she said, brightly, without looking up. "With a cream trim – ooh, or maybe white? Oh, and matching shoes, of course. I think they have those in here as well..."

Hermione groaned and buried her head in her hands.

* * *

In the end, she had to admit that Lavender really did know what she was talking about.

The red dress robes fitted her figure just as well as the burgundy ones, if not better, and the colour looked good against her dark hair. The white trim and patterning caught the eye and broke up the block of colour, emphasising her figure and making the overall effect rather more interesting than it would otherwise have been. Her hair had been left mostly untouched; Lavender had used a couple of well-placed spells to 'tame' the curls slightly, but she hadn't even suggested that they might want to spend three hours straightening it out. Even the dreaded matching shoes were a lot more comfortable than she'd feared they would be.

Harry had been right. Lavender was a genius.

"I can't believe..."

"How good you look?" Lavender paused in curling the front of her own hair to look Hermione over and grin at her. "Just remember, I may have helped a bit – and those robes are doing you all sorts of favours – but that's still you. That's what you look like." She raised an eyebrow at Hermione's blatantly sceptical expression. "Maybe you understand what Draco sees now, yeah?"

Hermione felt a chill creep over her at the mention of Draco. After their emotional discussion in the Room of Requirement, her relationship with Draco had seemed much the same as before – except that, now that he knew the truth, she didn't feel so guilty. She had allowed herself to hope that it would all work out well, or as well as she could reasonably expect – but lately, in the last week or so, things seemed to have changed. Draco had been... well, almost _distancing_ himself from her, and had showed an awkwardness that she hadn't seen from him since the very beginning. Was he having second thoughts? Had he decided that he ought not to be with her any longer? Maybe that would be the more sensible path to take, but she just couldn't bear the thought of it.

She shook her head. _No, not tonight.__ I don't want to think about this tonight. _The only thing she wanted to concern herself with was getting through the Ball with her dignity intact. "I don't know." She forced herself to think about Lavender's question. "I've never really thought of myself as pretty." She _had_ looked pretty at the last Yule Ball, and she knew it – but she'd also looked absolutely nothing like herself. That had left her with the impression that she, in her natural state, wasn't anyone really worth looking at. All the compliments in the world would have a hard time changing her mind about that.

"Perhaps you should start," Lavender said, simply. "I'd be happy if you managed to improve your image of yourself – though it'd also be good if you could stop hogging the mirror so I can see what I'm doing."

Hermione flushed, but protested, "I thought you were using the hand mirror."

"I was," Lavender replied. "Or, at least, I was trying to. But I really need to use the big one for this part. Why don't you go downstairs and wait in the common room? Draco and Seamus will probably have finished getting ready by now. Boys, you know." Lavender smirked at the look on Hermione's face. "I won't be all that long, I promise."

"Alright, I'll give you some space," Hermione said, though as she looked at Lavender, she didn't think there was much more that the other girl really needed to do. The pale green dress robes – _sea glass_, that was what the catalogue had called the colour – were fastened and fitted, and her hair was all but done. Still, there was probably something incredibly vital that she was missing. "Oh, and thanks for all the help, Lavender."

Lavender paused mid-curl to smile warmly at her. "What are friends for, if not to help with these things?" She looked Hermione over and nodded decisively. "Besides, it was a pleasure, honestly."

Hermione could only laugh at that, and then made her way out of their room and down into the common room. A number of heads turned as she made her appearance, and several murmured conversations seemed to start at once. She heard a few mentions of _'the Champion'_, so she could only imagine that they were talking about her. It was difficult not to turn around and run back upstairs, but somehow she managed to keep her head up under the scrutiny and cross the room to where Draco and Seamus were sitting.

Perhaps it was her imagination, but there seemed to be more warmth in Draco's smile than there had been at any other time that week. "You look very nice," he said, his eyes showing his admiration far better than any words could have done.

"Thanks." She looked him over in return, taking in the well cut and tailored dark blue robes against which his pale skin and hair shone like white gold. "So do you."

Draco laughed. "Good," he said, frankly. "I wouldn't want to show you up, now, would I?" He cast a sideways look at his friend, and then poked him in the ribs, saying, "Close your mouth, Seamus, or you might swallow a fly."

"In December?" Seamus fired back, but he did blush slightly and look away from Hermione. "It's a nice robe she's wearing, that's all."

"Just admiring the colour, were you?" Draco jabbed him again, but Seamus slapped his hand away.

"So I think she looks nice, so what?" he demanded. "I'm sure I won't look at anything else for the rest of the evening once Lavender comes down, so I might as well look at Hermione now, mightn't I?"

Slightly uncomfortable with this topic of conversation, Hermione put in, "Lavender said that she wasn't going to be much longer."

"Good," Seamus said, decisively, trying to keep his eyes away from Hermione while Draco tried desperately not to laugh. "All this waiting around is driving me mad."

"Not that it's a long trip," Draco put in, then ducked under Seamus' attempt to hit him.

Hermione had grown used to this sort of banter after hearing it for several months, but right now she found that it was wearing on her nerves. It wasn't that the boys were being any more annoying than was usual for them, so she supposed it must be her apprehension about the Ball making her short of patience. Still, she bit her lip and managed not to say anything rude or unpleasant, and fortunately Lavender didn't keep them waiting for very long.

"Oh." Seamus' eyes had gone wide at the sight of her, and if Hermione had been a more shallow person, she might have hated her friend at that moment. Lavender hadn't put on anywhere near as much makeup as her counterpart would have done, but she was still unquestionably beautiful. Whatever anyone might try to tell her, Hermione knew that she was in no way comparable to Lavender, who was loveliness itself. "What gorgeous... uh, robes?"

Draco snickered at this, and Hermione looked at him and rolled her eyes. They were both well aware that Seamus was not looking at the _robes_.

As was Lavender, who laughed. "I'll take the trail of drool as a compliment."

Seamus coloured, but promptly replied, "You should."

Watching the interplay between them, Hermione felt briefly jealous, but this was effectively dispelled by Draco leaving his chair so that he could stand beside her and put an arm around her. "I think this is one occasion where we can't really justify being fashionably late," he said, softly, smiling a little as Hermione leant into him, relishing the contact.

Lavender looked away from Seamus for long enough to say, "Right, of course. We can't deprive the Champions' Table of its most attractive couple, can we?" She helped her boyfriend to his feet and then both couples made their way to the portrait hole. It wasn't as if they were actually running late, but it was a long way from Gryffindor Tower to the Great Hall. _Better safe than sorry_.

Couples were lining up outside the Hall when they arrived, ushered into an orderly queue by the predictably black-clad Professor Snape. He looked more than a little awkward when he approached Hermione and Draco; she hadn't spoken to him outside of lessons since their not-quite-argument. "Ah, and here's the Hogwarts Champion." He smiled at her, and despite her nerves she made the effort to smile back. Hopefully he'd understand. "You'll need to line up over here with the other Champions, if you please." Walking them over to the three other guests of honour, he added in an undertone, "You look quite the Champion this evening, Miss Granger."

"Thank you, sir." It was a peace offering, and she took it in the spirit that he had given it. "I wouldn't want to let Hogwarts down."

"I'm sure you could never do that," Professor Snape said, with surprising warmth. Then, as they reached the other Champions and their partners: "Just wait here until you're called, and then you'll lead everyone into the Hall and take your seats at the top table for the feast. It shouldn't be _too_ much longer now." He smiled at all of them – even Harry, if only slightly – and then left to go back to organising the queue.

Hermione looked around at the other Champions and their partners. Nadya wore a bright yellow that somehow managed to look flattering on her, and was accompanied by one of the less loathsome seventh year Slytherins. Etienne, who was sharp and elegant in classic black – and God, when had she started to think so much like Lavender? – was partnered by one of his fellow Beauxbatons students, a rather blandly pretty blonde girl in soft lilac dress robes. And Harry... well, Harry had brought Ginny.

This was not what Hermione had expected, and she found herself surprised to see Ginny again under such circumstances. In another world, Ginny had been the closest thing she'd ever had to a female friend, but here she looked anything but friendly, her face set in a challenging scowl as she glared at Hermione and clung possessively to Harry's arm. Obviously the younger girl – who looked very pretty indeed in her simple white robes – had decided that they were rivals for Harry's affection, which was utterly ridiculous. Though perhaps it was better for Ginny to act out towards her; Nadya wouldn't be anywhere near as understanding or forgiving.

Greetings and introductions were exchanged – the Slytherin boy was Sam Vaisey, and the French girl Yvette Rénier – but the conversation was rather stilted and awkward on all sides. Even Etienne seemed surprisingly subdued, at least compared to his usual exuberance. Perhaps they all felt just a little self-conscious about standing around in their best robes, waiting to have everyone stare at them for the rest of the evening. Then again, that could just be her projecting her own mental state onto everyone else.

"It'll be fine," she murmured, mostly to herself.

Draco answered her anyway. "Of course it will. It'll be amazing. You'll see."

They smiled at each other, and for a moment she thought that he was going to completely disregard the people all around them and kiss her. And perhaps he would have done, but at that moment Professor Dumbledore and Minister Fudge appeared to escort the Champions and their dance partners into the Great Hall. It was time. The moment they'd been dreading was finally here. Hermione swallowed hard, but held her head high and tried to sweep as gracefully as possible into the long room and up towards the head table.

It was at least a little thrilling to be seated at what was usually the teacher's table, and even if Fudge _was_ a moron, it still wasn't every day that she ate with the Minister for Magic. Kingsley Shacklebolt was there with the Minister, as usual, but he was seated too far away from her to make conversation with him. All she could do was watch him occasionally, waiting for him to slyly doctor his drink with something that might be Polyjuice Potion. As far as she could see, he did nothing of the kind, but she was understandably rather distracted. Hopefully Professor Snape had noticed anything she might have missed.

The food was good, not that she could bring herself to eat very much of it, and the conversation seemed to flow more naturally than it had done out in the Entrance Hall. All in all, Hermione enjoyed the feast a lot more than she'd been expecting to – but, then again, she already knew that the worst part would be _after_ dinner.

As the dessert course drew on, she could feel the apprehension almost radiating from the other Champions, reflecting her own. Of course, a little nervousness was only to be expected; they were about to open a Ball in front of a crowd that included the British Minister for Magic and the Heads of all three schools. The atmosphere at the table reminded Hermione of the Champions Tent before the First Task, which made her wonder how many of them would rather have faced their griffin again. If that had been an option, she might well have taken it herself.

But it wasn't an offer anyone was going to make, and far too soon the plates were cleared away and the students shepherded away from the long tables to stand by the walls. Professor McGonagall collected the Champions and led them to stand in front of the top table, in full view of everyone. And then, quite suddenly, all of the long tables and benches vanished, exposing the wide open space that would be used as a dance floor. A murmur of amazement rippled through the crowd of onlookers, even as Hermione's stomach clenched with anxiety.

Once everyone had settled down, Professor McGonagall announced: "Ladies and gentlemen, I give you: the Triwizard Champions!"

There was applause and cheering, and somehow Hermione managed to leave the corner and make her way out onto the floor.

Later in the evening she would take note of all of the decorations and impressive little bits of magic that had gone into setting the stage for their dance. But at the time, all she was conscious of was the feel of Draco's arm under her hand, and the weight of several hundred expectant stares as everyone watched their progress. She couldn't look around. If she did, she might make eye contact with one of the people watching her, the idea of which frightened her for no reason that she could adequately explain.

Then the music started, and she abruptly forgot about everything else.

She'd danced with Viktor at the previous Ball, and he had been an excellent dancer. They'd looked good together; or, at least, several people had said as much, so she supposed it had to be true. But that was nothing compared to _this_. Neither Draco nor Hermione were particularly good at expressing their feelings in words, but in the dance everything came alive for them. The simple movements were imbued with emotion, every touch and hold and separation seemed perfectly natural and true. She could look nowhere but at him as they danced, the air between them charged with a beautiful tension.

_With love. _The revelation came without conscious prompting and crashed in her mind like a wave on the shore. She nearly stopped dead in the middle of the dance floor, such was her shock. _Love.__ I love him._

And wasn't that just the most ridiculously inconvenient turn of events?

She would've laughed out loud if that wouldn't have made her look unhinged. Instead, she went through the rest of the dance as if in a dream, the steps coming to her automatically thanks to the hours of practice. It was only at the end of the dance, when the Hall rang with the near-deafening applause of the spectators, that she came back to herself and realised that it was over. She could hardly believe that she'd been dreading it so much.

Draco guided her over to the edge of the room, where a cluster of small tables and chairs had been set up for those who needed a break from dancing. He smiled softly at her, and almost shyly said, "That was... well, damn near perfect."

Hermione looked back at the dance floor, which was steadily filling with couples as the next song began to play. She had no particular desire to join them again just yet, but the memory of their first dance was surprisingly pleasant. "Yeah." That wasn't the most inspired reply, admittedly, but she was finding it rather difficult to think. She shook her head, hoping to clear it – and then she caught sight of Ginny, who was staring at her with a remarkable expression on her face. It wasn't simple jealousy or hatred; it was something far more gut-wrenchingly desperate and miserable.

"Draco," she said, softly, looking away from the anguished girl. "Do you think you could go get us both a drink or something? I think Ginny wants to talk to me, and she won't if you're here." At least, she wouldn't if Hermione was right about the topic of the conversation.

Draco glanced over at Ginny and pulled a face. "Are you sure you want her to talk to you?"

Hermione shrugged. "More than I want her to keep staring at me like that."

"Good point. I'll go get those drinks, then." Draco raised his voice for the last part, taking care that Ginny would hear him. He then took a step back and turned, making his way up to the punch bowl at the top table.

Sure enough, he had not been gone for more than a minute when Ginny came over, her casual saunter ruined by her obvious alertness to the possibility of being watched. Once in front of Hermione, though, the younger girl showed no such caution, coming immediately to the point of greatest interest. "You... you're not actually seeing Harry, are you?"

Hermione could have tried to make a clever quip at this point, but decided that it might be insensitive to do so. "In a romantic sense? No. I'm seeing Draco, if you want to put it that way." _Not seeing nearly as much as I'd __like__ to,_ she thought, and was briefly shocked by her own shamelessness.

"Yeah, I can see that now," Ginny said, morosely. "I thought before that... I don't know, that you'd seduced Harry, and you were secretly together, or something – and that was why he didn't ask me to go out with him." She sighed. "But then I saw you with Malfoy and realised that... well, that there was no one else for you."

"I don't... what, would you have _preferred_ to find out that Harry and I were together?" Hermione didn't understand Ginny's logic at all.

"I... sort of. You know, because if you were, then it would be _your_ fault, and I could blame you for stealing him." She made no attempt to dissemble or sugar-coat the truth. Hermione was almost impressed. "Sometimes I tell myself that it's Ron's fault – because he's Harry's best friend, so of course Harry would be wary of ever touching me in case it upset Ron."

"You... well, you're very straightforward." Hermione had no idea what she was supposed to say in response to such a declaration.

"I suppose that's surprising for a Slytherin, isn't it?" Ginny laughed, but the sound was too sharp and bitter to be pleasant. "Oh, I don't know. What good would subtlety do me, anyway? It's just... I just want an answer to 'why won't he ask me out?' that isn't 'because he doesn't want to', you know?"

Hermione understood this perfectly. After all, how many excuses had she made for her Ron over the years, to justify his failure to show any interest in her? "Oh, yes, I know." She wasn't sure how much advice she really ought to give this other Ginny – they weren't friends, or even anything close to it – but still, the poor girl was torturing herself, and it hurt Hermione to see it. "I think you... honestly, you need to remember that if he wants to ask you out then he will, and if he doesn't ask then that's his loss. Plenty of other boys would happily take his place, I'm sure." Especially with the way Ginny looked in those simple yet very effective white dress robes.

"But they're not _him_." Ginny's voice rang with despair, and she turned plaintive eyes on Hermione, as though she'd forgotten that she was talking to a virtual stranger. "I just wanted him to want me. Why _doesn't_ he want me?"

"Because love doesn't make sense, I guess." Hermione was unable to avoid drawing parallels to the events of her own life. Recognising that this was unlikely to help Ginny come to terms with the fact, she took pity on the other girl. "Who knows. Maybe he does, or maybe he will wake up one day and realise you're everything he ever wanted. But you can't live waiting for that day. Try talking to other boys, ones who do like you in that way."

She realised with a start that this was the same advice she'd given a different Ginny Weasley over a year before. And that, despite her lack of direct experience at the time, she'd been right. She'd proved it; her friendly flirtation with Draco had driven her foolish infatuation with Ron right out of her head, even before they'd been an actual couple.

"I don't _like_ other boys." Ginny sounded sulky and petulant.

"How will you know that if you don't try talking to them?" Hermione struggled with her growing impatience. Ginny wasn't five; there was no reason for her to throw a tantrum in the middle of the Great Hall. With some effort, she managed to speak calmly. "You're fifteen. You don't have to find the love of your life. Just have fun without Harry. You might realise he's not actually that great." Ginny stared at her incredulously, and Hermione couldn't help but laugh. "What? It could happen!"

Ginny pulled a face, but then let out her breath in a long hiss, saying, "Sorry. You've been far more patient with me than I deserve."

Hermione was tempted to agree with her, but decided to err on the side of politeness. "Don't worry about it." There was a brief moment of uncomfortable silence, during which Hermione was acutely aware of everything that was bizarre about the situation.

"I really shouldn't have said anything."

"It's fine." Out of the corner of her eye Hermione could see Harry dancing with Nadya, and she wondered if Ginny had also noticed them. "I'd honestly rather have you talk to me than glare at me like you were trying to kill me with your gaze or something."

She snorted. "Very much a Gryffindor, wanting to sort everything out up front." Her face took on a rather pained expression. "Although I suppose that applies to me, too, and I'm not _supposed _to act that way."

"I think that sometimes we can get a little too caught up in what our Houses are or aren't supposed to be." Hermione was surprised by her own words, but on reflection they made perfect sense. Didn't everyone make too much of the supposed differences between the Houses, in the end?

"Perhaps." Ginny sighed. "I can be a bit sensitive about it, though, since people always seem to think that I should've been in Gryffindor."

"Because of your family?" Hermione was slightly nervous about the question – did it imply knowledge that she ought not to have? – but to her relief Ginny didn't seem surprised or suspicious.

"Yeah, exactly. I think more or less every other Weasley _ever_ has been in Gryffindor. Except for me and Ron, that is." She scowled. "Well, whatever anyone says, I _do_ belong here. If I'd thought that I could spy on you to get the answers I wanted, I'd have done that."

Hermione didn't find this particularly comforting, but it would've been pointless to say so. "I wouldn't recommend that as an approach. Asking people upfront tends to get better answers anyway."

"Yeah, I suppose." Ginny let out a rather tired-sounding sigh. "Sorry; it's not your fault I'm in this situation, and you've already been way more helpful than I had any right to expect."

"I..." Hermione couldn't quite bring herself to say that she didn't mind; she wasn't very fond of lying, even when it was all in a good cause. In the end, she settled for: "Don't worry about it." She was repeating herself, she knew – but what else could she say?

Ginny gave a jerky laugh. "Oh, I won't – at least not for very long." She nodded at something over Hermione's left shoulder. "Your boyfriend's come back, by the way. So... maybe I ought to leave you alone with him."

She looked around and saw Draco standing nearby, holding two glasses of punch. "Don't feel that you _have_ to go," she said, though she couldn't stop herself from smiling at the sight of him.

"Don't worry," Ginny said. "Maybe I'll go find a nice boy to talk to." She gave a decidedly impish grin that made her look exactly like the _other_ Ginny. "I hear Terry has a bit of a thing for me."

Hermione laughed. "That's the spirit," she said, feeling both relieved and a little guilty as the girl disappeared off into the crowd. No sooner had she gone than Draco approached and held out a glass. "Oh, thanks."

"You're welcome." He smiled, then took a sip of his own drink and put it down on a nearby table. "So, I see you were right about her wanting to talk to you."

"Yeah." Hermione thought back over the strange conversation with Ginny and pulled a face. "It was pretty much exactly what I expected. She likes Harry, and I don't think he likes her, or at least not _that_ way, you know? And... well, to start with I think she thought that Harry and I were a thing, but then she saw us together and realised..." She stopped abruptly, remembering Ginny's exact words. _There was no one else for you_. It was true. There wasn't.

"Realised?" Draco prompted, looking at her with serious eyes and completely failing to conceal his eager interest.

"Oh, just that we were too interested in each other for me to be seeing Harry behind your back, that's all." Hermione tried to sound casual, but wasn't sure if she succeeded. The look in Draco's eyes was far too intense for her to be entirely comfortable, at least in public. And, well, given her unsettling revelation during the dance, she wondered if she ought to distance herself from him a little... _oh_.

_That's what __he's__ been doing this past week._

Hermione didn't quite gasp, but she did press her hand to her lips almost unconsciously. When Draco looked at her strangely – as well he might – she shook her head and stammered out, "I don't know... I should tell you, or maybe I shouldn't, but I _can't_..."

"Hermione," Draco said, his voice strained with both worry and stifled laughter. "Just say it."

"Um. Okay." She turned away for a moment, taking slightly longer to put her glass on the table than was strictly warranted. Realising she had to answer him sometime, she took a deep breath and tried to stay calm. "I love you?" Her voice wavered and went slightly high-pitched at the end, and she thought she might die of sheer embarrassment.

"Is that a statement or a question?" Draco asked, his eyes bright with mischief.

God, she was going to burst into flames if she blushed any harder. "Do you enjoy being an arse?" she snapped, defensively.

He chuckled. "Well, I'm so good at it." Then he reached out and took both of her hands in his, guiding her into a kiss that was a lot less chaste than it looked. Her irritation faded away all at once, and when he pulled back, she could see a warm glow in his eyes that threatened to melt her entirely. "I'm sorry," he said, and it almost sounded like he meant it. "And, well, I love you, too."

Despite this declaration, they both stood looking at one another in slightly awkward silence for a moment. Then they heard the music segue into a new song and, relieved, Hermione asked, "So... do you want to dance with me?" She sounded almost shy.

Draco grinned. "I would like nothing more."


	19. Comforting Our Separate Souls

**Author's Notes:** And here's the first of the holiday specials. Which I know I said would be posted on the 24th, but Christmas was sort of crazy. Who could have predicted such a thing? Apparently not me.

I will post Chapter 20 tomorrow.

* * *

**19\. Comforting Our Separate Souls**

A whistle blew, the last door slammed shut, and the special Christmas Express crawled out of Hogsmeade station, ready for the long ride back to Kings Cross. As the countryside began to move steadily through the frame of the compartment window, Hermione leant back in her seat and let out a contented sigh.

"I do love Hogwarts," she said. "But I'm so glad to be going home for Christmas. It's just not the same." It might have been one of the oldest and most tired of clichés, but there really was no place like home, especially at this time of year.

Draco tore his gaze away from the frost-covered landscape. He nodded slowly, looking rather pensive. "I know what you mean," he said, then fell silent for a moment before adding, in an obviously hopeful tone, "Oh, you remembered to ask your mum if you could come over sometime during the holiday, right?"

"Of course." The reply had confused her a little, leading her to assume that the Hermione of this world had made slightly different arrangements for the holiday season than _she_ usually did. At least she knew the answer to Draco's question. "She said that the 27th would be okay, if that worked for you and Sirius." Hermione flushed a little as she added, "Oh, and she _also_ mentioned that she was looking forward to meeting you this afternoon."

"Hm." Draco frowned slightly, though his eyes gleamed. "I suppose I'll have to see if I can find my best tie for impressing mothers." Hermione snorted and poked him in the ribs, to which he retaliated by seizing her wrist and tickling her mercilessly. Across the compartment, Lavender cleared her throat, and he quickly straightened up and smoothed out his robes in a pretence at dignity. "Um... well, I'm sure the 27th will be fine with us. We'll lay on a special Black-Malfoy Christmas dinner for you, just so you know what you've been missing all these years."

"You don't have to make all that fuss," Hermione said, feeling a little uncomfortable with the idea.

"Oh, I know," was Draco's cheerful reply. "But Dad will insist on doing it anyway. He always finds some way to go over the top."

"Yeah, I can believe that." Hermione already knew that Sirius was not a man who exercised restraint in any aspect of his life. "I'm sure it'll be wonderful. I'm really looking forward to it." And so she was; she'd never had anyone outside her own family invite her to a Christmas dinner before, especially not a boyfriend. It was new and exciting.

"Well, I hope we don't disappoint you." Draco grinned, trying to make it into a joke, but she could see that it was tinged with genuine worry.

"I can't see why you would." Though she knew very well that she would have been equally nervous if it had been Draco coming to her house.

"Oh, while we're talking about plans for the holidays," Lavender cut in, nudging a sleepy Seamus into wakefulness. "You'll all be coming to my New Year's party, right?"

Being fortunate enough to share a room with Lavender, Hermione had already been told all about the party, so the question didn't surprise her. "I thought I already told you I was going." _Several times_, she added in her head, though not aloud.

Lavender laughed and tossed her head, causing her hair to swish over her shoulders. "Oh, yes, _you_ did, and so did Parvati. I was just wondering about everyone else."

"When have any of us ever missed the New Year's party if we could help it?" Neville asked, from his seat by the doors. He was engaged in sorting the snacks he'd bought from the trolley, insisting that their lunch was on him today.

"That's beside the point," Lavender grumbled, but was soon induced to smile by her portion of the (scandalously unhealthy) picnic.

"Just assume we'll all be there," Hermione advised, swapping most of her sweets for Draco's share of the pumpkin pasties and sausage rolls. "Oh, before I forget – after lunch, we'd better do our patrol of the train, before someone realises we haven't done our duty as Prefects."

Draco only nodded and took a bite out of a Cauldron Cake, but Seamus snickered and said, "Oh, patrolling the train, is it now? Not heard it called _that_ before."

Hermione blushed vivid red and made a rude hand gesture at him. Ron would've been so proud.

* * *

About half an hour before the train made it to Kings Cross, the sixth years changed into their Muggle clothes and exchanged Christmas presents. With the Yule Ball to worry about, a lot of people had all but forgotten about that _other_ winter festival, but somehow – presumably with the aid of owl-order catalogues – Hermione and her friends had managed to make a decent showing. The compartment was full of gifts in varying sizes, wrapped in appropriately festive coloured paper.

To Hermione, this ritual was particularly important, as it always had been, ever since she'd _had _friends with whom she could exchange gifts. They might all be going home for Christmas, but she didn't want any of her friends to think she'd forgotten about them. As if she could; in real terms she had known all of them only a few months, but she already held them close to her heart. It would not be only Draco whom she'd miss if she returned to her own reality.

_Would it even feel like home anymore? Can I really just leave, now that I've found this place?_ The thoughts troubled Hermione, tempting her, mocking her with her own tangle of emotional mistakes. This wasn't the attitude she was supposed to have. She ought to have stayed detached from everyone, really, but she just wasn't the sort of person who _could_ do that anymore. Thanks to Harry and Ron – _her_ Harry and Ron – she didn't think she could ever go back to the way she had been before, when her beloved books had been her only friends.

She missed them. Much as she loved Draco, much as Lavender was the sister she'd never had and had always wanted, she missed Harry and Ron desperately, with a pain that time had not yet dulled. When browsing catalogues for Christmas presents for her friends and family, she'd come across a beautifully illustrated history of the Chudley Cannons and nearly burst into tears. Ron would have loved it, as much as he loved any book. (At least there were pictures in it.) It was a stupid thing to cry about, objectively speaking, but she couldn't help the way she felt.

With a slight shake of her head, Hermione forced her thoughts into a less depressing pattern. In two days later it would be Christmas, which even for Muggles was the most magical time of the year. Her traditional family celebration was nowhere near as extravagant as that at Hogwarts, but it was _theirs_. She hummed a few bars of _Driving Home for Christmas_ under her breath almost before she realised what she was doing. Her Dad always sang along with that song, and despite his undeniably terrible singing voice, she couldn't help but think fondly of him at that moment.

"Hey, Hermione, wake up!" Seamus was waving his hand in front of her face. "We're doing presents!"

"Really?" She looked up at him and smirked. "Shame I didn't get anything for you, then."

"What's this, then?" He seized a silver box, the tag of which bore his name in Hermione's neat script. "Looks like something for me."

"Hm." Hermione took the wrapped parcel away from him and made a show of looking at it. "I suppose it does." Draco had helped her to choose the gift, as he had with several of her other friends, but hopefully none of them would ever know. She held the present out. "Here. It must be your lucky day."

"Thanks, Hermione." He kissed her on the cheek and retreated to his seat with his prize. "Can we open them now?" Seamus seemed rather like a little boy on Christmas Eve.

"Christmas presents are for Christmas Day," Lavender said, firmly, and no more was heard on the subject. Everyone packed away their many packages – Hermione couldn't remember ever getting so many presents before in her life – and settled back down to watch the North London suburbs pass by on the way in to Kings Cross.

All too soon, the train came to a stop, and they stepped down onto Platform Nine-and-Three-Quarters with their cases and bags. It was packed with eager family members, waiting for a first glimpse of their son or daughter, brother or sister. Draco led her over to where Sirius was standing, his arms folded over his chest, trying to look as if he wasn't anxious at all. He was not particularly successful in this; he simply hadn't been made to hide his feelings. When he saw Draco, his face lit up, and he swept his son up into a rather painful-looking hug.

"Feels weird to be picking you up this close to Christmas," he said, grinning in a way that made him look barely older than Draco. "Oh, and here's the lovely Hermione! It will be a pleasure to have you come over for dinner, even if it's not until the 27th. The elves are already going crazy preparing for it."

Hermione felt a little uneasy about this, not least because of the mention of house-elves. While she'd become somewhat reconciled to the idea of them at Hogwarts – though she still wished they could be free and paid – elves in private ownership still bothered her. Even if it _was_ only Sirius. "Please, don't make too much out of it," she said, knowing it was probably all in vain.

Sirius laughed. "It's out of my hands," he said, throwing his arms up in a comical show of helplessness. "The elves do whatever they want, I swear. I'll have to rein them in, if anything. Although... this is the first time Draco's ever brought a girl home. I have to seriously impress you and seriously embarrass him. I _do_ know my fathering shit."

"I think that being a responsible father is also supposed to include not swearing in front of your child," Draco pointed out, dryly.

Sirius snorted. "Details, details," he said, breezily. "Now, let's get through the barrier and find Hermione's parents. They're Muggles, aren't they?"

"They are, yes." It wasn't common for anyone to make anything of it, but she did know that there were those who thought her parentage made her less of a witch. While she knew that Sirius wasn't one of those people, it still took some effort for her to force down her natural defensiveness on the subject.

All Sirius said was, "I thought I remembered hearing that." And then, ignoring her protests, he picked up her bags and carried them through the barrier onto platform 9.

Hermione, trailing a little behind him, saw her mother immediately; she was sitting on a bench with a good view of the barrier, despite the fact that it was enchanted so that she would never see it. In fact, the Muggle repelling charms were so good and so thorough that she didn't even notice her daughter until Hermione tapped her gently on the shoulder. With a start, she looked up, exclaiming, "Oh! Hermione! I'm sorry; I must have been miles away!" Her rather severe-looking face split into a warm smile, and she pulled Hermione into a hug that nearly reduced her to tears.

This was her mother – she looked and sounded just like her – but at the same time it was not. In all her joy and excitement to be going home for Christmas, she'd managed to forget that important fact. And... more to the point, her father wasn't there. She almost didn't dare to ask why. This world hadn't been kind to parents, even when compared to the one she'd left behind.

At this point, her mother looked up and took in Sirius and Draco, who were watching this reunion in the slightly awkward manner of people who have no idea what to do with themselves. "I do hope that this Draco that you've been writing to me about is the younger one," she said, in a dry, mock-stern manner.

Hermione laughed. "Yes. That's Draco, and this is his dad, Sirius."

"The names you wizards have," her mother replied, without a trace of irony. Then: "Very pleased to meet both of you."

Draco swallowed audibly, apparently more daunted by the prospect of meeting Hermione's mother than he had been on the train. "And you, uh, Mrs. Granger?"

Her mother's face darkened slightly, which Hermione didn't understand, but she sounded cheerful and polite as she said, "Caroline, please. Since I only know your first names, it seems fair that you should use mine."

"I prefer to be on first name terms with everyone anyway," Sirius said, brightly. "I hate being called 'Mr. Black'. It still feels like they must be talking to my father, even though he's been dead for nearly twenty years now."

Hermione's mother gave a slight smile at this. She seemed amused by Sirius in general – and why shouldn't she be? He was far too much like the shaggy dog he sometimes became to be taken seriously as an adult human. "It is rather odd to realise that you're the same age – or older – than your parents were when you were a child," she said, delicately. As a Muggle, she of course knew nothing of the dark undercurrents of the Black family, but she could sense that there was _something_ underlying Sirius' words about his father.

"Hah. Yes. Thirty-seven, would you believe? I don't know how that happened." Sirius, to his credit, simply accepted her interpretation and ran with it.

"I was just thinking that you must have been very young," Hermione's mother said, eyeing both Sirius and Draco. She did not volunteer her own age in return, which was several years older than Sirius if one counted physical age, and a good two decades if one was considering sense and maturity. "Since Draco is sixteen, I believe."

"Yes. I hope I don't look much younger than that." It was an attempt at a joke, but his nervousness was obvious.

"You look sixteen, or thereabouts," Hermione's mother reassured him. "I would've said something before now if I thought you didn't."

Draco laughed. "That's a relief." Then he wrapped his arms gently around Hermione and – mindful of her mother's presence – kissed her on the cheek. "Dad and I have to get home before the elves fill the house with decorations," he said, his voice loud in her ear. "It's happened before. I think they're both mad."

Hermione snorted at this, despite her disapproval. "Okay, go on, then. I'll see you in a few days, after all."

"It'll feel like forever," Draco said, dramatically, and Hermione wasn't sure how serious this was intended to be.

"You'll be fine, honestly," she said, rolling her eyes at him. "Your family will distract you, I'm sure." Well, if Tonks was anything like the one Hermione knew, she'd probably tease Draco mercilessly. That had to count as distracting.

"Yeah, I guess so." He still didn't sound very happy. Hermione felt an unpleasant stab of guilt at the thought of how he would cope if – or when – she went home. "Have a good Christmas," he said, squeezing her briefly before letting go. "I'll see you in a few days."

"Such a long goodbye!" Sirius exclaimed. "You'd think one of you was going to Outer Mongolia for a year." He then turned his smile on Hermione's mother, saying, "It was good to meet you... Caroline." His eyes glittered in the same mischievous way that Draco's sometimes did, accentuating the resemblance between them.

Hermione's mother smiled but didn't seem at all affected by Sirius' charm. "And you, Mr. Black." She raised one eyebrow rather sardonically, causing Sirius to let out a bark of laughter that startled several passersby. "We should be leaving in any case; we have to get to Liverpool Street and catch another train."

After one more last-minute goodbye was said, Hermione and her mother walked away through the Kings Cross concourse towards the Underground station. They still had to spend another couple of hours travelling before they'd actually be _home_. It was a strangely unfair aspect of the Hogwarts rules. All students had to take the Express from London, no matter where they lived – which was all very well for magical families, who could use the Floo or Apparate, or even take the Knight Bus. But for Muggle parents... what could they do but drive or use public transport? Hermione didn't even live that far away from London, and she still felt the inequality of it.

_It's not even that they __hate__ Muggles. It's that they can't imagine life without magic. Worse, they refuse even to try. _

No witch or wizard who was not a Muggle-born had ever tried to deal with the London Underground during the early evening rush two days before Christmas. Hermione tightened her grip on her small suitcase and kept close to her mother in the crush of people pressing to get to the escalators. She'd be home soon enough, and then it wouldn't matter.

"Four stops to Liverpool Street, I think," she said, frowning at the large Tube map on the wall of the platform and trying to fit her ticket into the pocket of her coat.

"Yes." Hermione's mother checked her watch. "If we can get on the next train or the one after that, we ought to be able to catch the eighteen-twenty-seven." She shook her coat sleeve back down over her wrist, and flashed a bright smile at her daughter. "I've put up some of the decorations – but I thought that the tree could wait until you were home."

"Oh, Mum." Hermione couldn't help but feel touched by this; some of her earliest memories had been of 'helping' her parents put up the decorations at Christmas. Of course, that had been in another world, and perhaps things had happened very differently here. Though her mother didn't seem all that different. "That was a nice thought."

A train pulled in at the station, and the crowd surged towards it, but Hermione's mother was perfectly calm as she replied, "Actually, it was Rob's idea, so I suppose you'll have to hate it now." And, before Hermione could puzzle out that statement, her mother took her arm and somehow managed to squeeze both of them into the train carriage just before the doors closed.

It was a far cry from the Hogwarts Express. People were packed in like cheap sardines, as was normal at that time of day, and no one except Hermione seemed to mind or even notice. Magic had spoiled her for what her mother would call real life. All she could think was that, if not for the Tournament, she might have been tested for her Apparition licence by now. And then all of this would have passed in a blink of an eye, not fifteen sweaty minutes on the Underground and two hours on a slow train to Suffolk.

Still, it wasn't something she could change, and at least she'd have some time on the train to talk to her mother without any distractions or interruptions. Maybe she should stop fretting and make the most of that.

* * *

This wasn't _her_ house.

There was a strange lump in Hermione's throat as she looked up at the place that her mother had blithely called 'home'. It wasn't. Not as far as she was concerned, anyway. She had no memory of ever living here, happily or otherwise, and it left her disoriented in a way she hadn't been since seeing Harry's green Quidditch Captain badge in the hospital wing all those months ago. She'd wanted to go _home _for Christmas, to be in a familiar place with familiar people. This wasn't that. This was _all wrong_.

Perhaps she was overreacting, but she genuinely hadn't expected this. She'd become complacent; that was the only explanation. So much of what she'd seen had been the same as – or even better than – her own world that she'd all but forgotten that some things might be worse. This wasn't the house where she lived with her parents. It was a house where another Hermione Granger had lived with her mother – and now her mother's new husband.

For that, as she had managed to deduce on the train ride, was who the mysterious "Rob" must be. He hadn't come to meet the Express because he had to work late, but Hermione had got the distinct impression that this was deliberate on his part. The other Hermione didn't like him, that was obvious from her mother's comments, and the man was smart enough not to go where he wasn't wanted.

And, honestly, she was rather relieved about that. If anything, she was even less likely to be well-disposed towards this incomer, having expected to see her parents together when she got home. Not that she was going to get to the place that she thought of as home at all. It was strange, almost surreal, like a nightmare brought on by overindulging in sweets and pastries. Except she'd had too many hauntingly realistic dreams over the past few months to be able to fool herself. This was real, as much as she might wish that it wasn't.

"Hermione!" Her mother had opened the front door, and seemed both surprised and annoyed to see her still standing by the car. "Are you in a trance? Come into the house; it's cold outside."

"I... sorry, Mum," she said, picking up her case and walking up the path to the door. "I was just thinking."

"Yes, well." Her mother ushered her through the door and then shut it behind them. "There'll be time enough for thinking after dinner." The lights came on, illuminating the interior of this strange house, and Hermione looked around in fascination. It was a nice house, large and tastefully decorated. From what little she could see, it might have been nicer than her home in her own world. But still, it just _wasn't hers._ Just as this Rob could be the nicest man on Earth, but that still wouldn't make him her Dad.

Hermione put her suitcase down in the hall and went through into the lounge, listening to her mother moving around in the kitchen. The picture frames were hung with tinsel, a plethora of Christmas cards had been slotted into a display on the wall, and all of the little ornaments she recognised from her childhood had been put out, as if to welcome her home. If only it were really home! Hermione sighed and reached for an apple-and-cinnamon-scented candle, slipping her wand out of the inside pocket of her coat to light it.

"Oh, of course, I forgot. You can do that now that you're seventeen." Hermione startled at her mother's voice, but managed to put the candle down safely on the mantel. It burned brightly, releasing a calming and distinctly festive scent. Not wanting to be rude, Hermione turned to look at her mother, and was surprised again by the concern on her face. "Darling, do you miss Hogwarts so much already?"

Hermione frowned. "Because I used magic to light a candle?"

"No, not that. You just seem different. Unhappy to be here." Her mother was far too perceptive.

"I wanted to come home for Christmas," Hermione said, firmly, looking around at the effort her mother had obviously made. "It just feels... really strange. Especially after the term I've had."

"Oh, of course." Her mother's smile was one that Hermione recognised and knew well; the one that spoke of how very proud she was, even of achievements that she couldn't and would never really understand. "My daughter, the school champion! You must have had a very busy term."

"I've barely had time to get all my work done," Hermione confessed. Seeing her mother's eyes narrow, she hurriedly added, "Though of course I've been managing." She looked around the room once again and sighed. "I guess it's just strange to be... to be home and know that virtually no one here has any idea that magic exists. Especially after months of being surrounded by it."

"I can see how that might be difficult." Hermione had always appreciated her mother's calm rationality, and it was especially welcome here. Another woman might have been offended by the implications of Hermione's words, but her mother just listened and tried to understand. "But, you know, however much magic you learn, wherever that strange world of yours takes you, you'll always belong here."

If only that were true!

Hermione offered a weak smile. "I know, Mum," she said. "Sorry; maybe I just need a good night's sleep." If she _could_ sleep in this unfamiliar house.

"Yes, perhaps." Her mother didn't look particularly convinced, but before she could say anything else, they were interrupted by the sound of a key turning in the front door. "Oh, that must be Rob!" Hermione felt a sudden stab of panic, not sure that she was ready to meet the man who'd taken her father's place. Her feelings must have shown on her face, because her mother frowned, then in a low pleading voice said, "Please just... be nice, Hermione."

What on earth was her counterpart like if her mother felt that such a warning was necessary? Hermione swallowed and moved away from the mantel just as a man stepped into the hall. He was not particularly striking in appearance – neither very tall nor very handsome, and perhaps a few years younger than her mother – but he seemed harmless enough. Part of Hermione wanted to rage that he wasn't her father, but that fire was extinguished by the chilling thought that _she _wasn't even the right Hermione. This Rob had more right to be here than she did.

"I come bearing Chinese food." A warm, fairly deep voice, with a slight accent that she couldn't quite place but thought was Northern. "Tell me you haven't started cooking anything." He pushed though into the empty kitchen carrying bags that smelled delicious.

"No, not yet." Her mother was almost laughing. "I haven't even been home for five minutes myself. Hermione and I haven't even had a chance to sit down."

"Ah." There was some trepidation in Rob's face and voice as he turned to look at Hermione. "Good to have you back for Christmas," he said, though he sounded rather doubtful about his own words. Hermione wondered if he was scared of her because she was a witch – or perhaps just apprehensive because of her usual reaction to him. "I made sure to order some chicken satay."

Hermione wasn't sure what to make of this. She liked satay well enough, but perhaps it was one of the other Hermione's favourite foods. "That was thoughtful of you," she said, a little stiffly. "Thank you."

His smile took her by surprise. Had she really been so awful to him that even her awkward attempts at civility seemed like an improvement? It was baffling. Of course, the other Hermione had never lived with the fear of knowing that Dark wizards would target her and her friends. She had never helped protect a legendary magical artefact, or been Petrified by a Basilisk, or used time travel to free a convict, or fought a desperate battle in the deepest and most secret part of the Ministry. To all intents and purposes, she had been a child – and so perhaps Hermione could never be immature enough to emulate her, not after everything she'd been through.

"Pick up some plates, will you, darling?" her mother asked, breaking through her unsettling thoughts. "Let's eat this while it's still hot."

Dinner was actually surprisingly good; Hermione enjoyed the food and managed to interact with Rob in a polite and relatively warm manner. After all, she knew only too well what it was like not to belong somewhere. How could she fail to have at least some compassion for the man, even if he was an intruder in what had become her life?

Her mother had obviously noticed, as while they were alone in the kitchen after carrying in the plates, she said, "I see that you took what I said in September to heart, which is just... thank you, darling. Having some measure of peace in my house is a wonderful Christmas present."

Hermione wasn't sure what to say, or if she could even say anything. She felt suspiciously choked up, and didn't really understand why. "It's alright," she managed, eventually. "I thought a lot, when I was at school, and I think I get it now."

"I'm so glad," her mother said, with a warm smile. Then, with an air of thorough satisfaction, she threw open one of the cupboards, saying, "So, how do you feel about helping me make some mulled wine?"

Some things, it seemed, were the same in all worlds.


	20. Freeze This Moment

**Author's Notes: **This is part 2 of the holiday chapters, and marks the end of the year 1996 within the story world (and the end of updates for 2015 in the real world). I have not yet finished Chapter 25, which is giving me rather more trouble than I anticipated, so I will try to get through that this week. (The second half of it needs to be ripped out and rewritten. The trials of writing...)

After this, there will be no updates until **30****th**** January 2016**. I think I said the 23rd before, but I want to give myself some breathing room to sort out the story's climax. Apologies to everyone reading along.

I feel obliged to note that the end of this chapter is probably quite a strong T, though I don't think it really goes beyond that. I've never really been that good with ratings.

* * *

**20\. Freeze This Moment**

From the outside, the house on Grimmauld Place looked exactly as she remembered it. Apart from the fact that passersby could clearly see it – their eyes didn't slide unnervingly straight from number eleven to number thirteen – it might have been the same house.

That impression changed entirely the moment she stepped inside. Gone were the dangerous magical artefacts, the screaming portrait, even the pervading sense of gloom and darkness. Instead, the hallway was bright and airy... and looked like it'd been decorated for Christmas by Professor Dumbledore, or on his orders. It was all a little over the top, but then Sirius had said that the house-elves were rather enthusiastic about it. Apparently that had been nothing but the truth.

"It's very... festive," she said, trying to be positive.

Sirius laughed. "It's demented," he said, bluntly. "But it makes the little menaces happy, so I can't really bring myself to stop them." He led her into an almost completely unrecognisable sitting-room, where a very familiar elf was setting down a tea tray. "Dobby, go tell Draco that Hermione is here, will you?"

"At once, Master Sirius!" Dobby saluted smartly and vanished with a sharp crack.

Hermione stared at the spot where he'd been for a moment, but had to concede that it made sense. Dobby had been the Malfoy's house-elf, so here he belonged to Draco. And since she was sure that neither Draco nor Sirius would ever mistreat an elf, he probably didn't even _want_ to be free. It was still a little painful to see, though; however cheerful the house-elves were about their lot, Hermione had never been able to see it as anything but slavery.

Sirius, oblivious to both her thoughts and her mood, waved her to a chair, saying, "Make yourself comfortable. I'm sure he'll be down soon."

"Right." Hermione sat down near the table and picked up a teacup, thinking as she did so that the steel and china tea service was very unlike what she'd determined of Sirius' personality. Perhaps it was Dobby's own personal taste. "Will you want a cup?" she asked, looking up.

"Oh... yes, of course – but I think that, as the host, I ought to be pouring tea for _you._" He paused, but then laughed. "Ah, well, I was never very good at following the rules."

Hermione frowned. There was something off about Sirius' manner. She couldn't put her finger on _what_, and she had no idea _why_, but something was definitely bothering him. If it was connected to her... well, she could always ask, if he didn't tell her of his own accord. Shrugging, she turned over two more small, dainty cups and then reached for the teapot.

Just as she finished adding milk to the third cup, the door opened and Draco came in. "Sorry I wasn't down here when you arrived," he said, sounding rather breathless.

"Tidying your bedroom?" Sirius asked, somehow making the words sound like an innuendo.

Draco flushed. "Maybe. It's only polite." He scowled at Sirius and then walked over to sit on the small sofa next to Hermione. "Anyway, I'm sorry, I should've been here to greet you, say Merry Christmas, that sort of thing." He looked her over, and added, "You look very nice, by the way. I think I prefer Muggle clothes to robes in a lot of respects."

Hermione was fairly sure that this was a reference to the neckline of her jumper, which while perfectly decent was still lower than that of most robes. She snorted. "I'm still more comfortable in them," she admitted. It was hard not to see wearing wizard robes as dressing up, even after more than five years. "How do you take tea, by the way?"

"Two sugars," was his reply, which Hermione thought was far too sweet, but obligingly put into the cup anyway. "Thanks; that's great." He took a sip of the tea before wincing at the temperature and putting it back on the table. "So how was your family Christmas?"

"Which one?" Hermione asked, sounding more than a little bitter. Not that either of the celebrations she'd been part of had been bad, per se, but they hadn't been what she'd been expecting. She'd been looking forward to Christmas, but as far as she was concerned, it simply hadn't happened. Her mother had done everything beautifully, and there was nothing actually wrong with Rob, but it just wasn't the same. And as for her Boxing Day visit to her father and his new family, the less said about that the better.

"You had more than one?" Of course, Draco didn't know anything about her situation – unsurprising, since she hadn't had the first idea about it herself.

"Yeah, one at home with Mum, and then the second one was yesterday, with my Dad and Naomi and their children." Her half-brother and sisters, none of whom were magical or even knew the first thing about magic. They believed that Hermione went to a fancy independent school in Scotland, on a scholarship because she was so clever. And it _hurt_. Perhaps the Statute of Secrecy prevented Naomi and the children from being told about witches and wizards, but it seemed more likely that her father just hadn't wanted to talk about it. Even when they were tactfully left alone together – Naomi was a lovely woman, really – he'd kept changing the subject.

Which made it very hard for her to avoid asking herself the question: had her magic been the wedge that had driven her parents apart in this world? Because her mother could accept it and be proud of her, but her father could not?

"Oh. Your parents are..."

"Divorced, yes," Hermione said, rather stiffly. "And both married to other people." Seeing the look of confusion on Draco's face, she asked, somewhat irritably, "Is this not a thing that happens in the magical world, or something?"

Sirius laughed. "Oh, it happens," he said. "Not all that often, granted, but it does happen sometimes. In pureblood society it's usually phrased as a _dissolution of the contract_, and only really happens if the terms of the original agreement are broken somehow."

"Yeah, Vaisey's father was married to another woman when his mother became pregnant with him, so his wife's family dissolved the contract. Not that it bothered Old Vaisey; he just married his mistress and legitimised their son as his heir." Draco shrugged. "But yeah, that's the sort of thing that ends marriages in the pureblood world. And it's just about the only way a witch can get out of a contract. The Muggle way of doing things really needs to catch on here, I think."

Hermione only nodded at this, stunned into silence by the sudden realisation that, if her father really hadn't been able to accept her magic, it was much better for him _not _to live with her and her mother. And that, regardless of the source of the differences between her parents in this world, she should at least try to be pleased that they'd had the opportunity to find happiness with other people. Who would have thought that sometimes the Muggle world would be the one that had the better way of doing things?

"Poor Hermione's just found out that her parents are divorced," Sirius said, gently, surprising her with his sensitivity. "She can't be expected to see the positive side of it just yet."

Hermione laughed. "I was just thinking about that, actually," she said. "I definitely see the positive side in theory, but that doesn't mean that I feel much happier about it. I hadn't expected it at all, and I can't really sort out what I think."

"Yeah, that's understandable," Sirius said. "But right now all you need to think is 'My, what a lovely house Sirius and Draco have; I hope they'll show me around it'." He smirked at her. "Because I'm sure that Draco would be very happy to oblige you."

Draco rolled his eyes at this, but replied, "Of course I would." He certainly seemed eager enough about the idea. "If Hermione wants to, I mean," he added, quickly.

Naturally, she was curious about what the old house was like here, in a world where it had never been neglected and then used as the headquarters of a secret organisation. "If you want to show me then I'd be happy to follow you around for the full tour."

"The full tour, Draco, mind," Sirius reminded him. "_Not _just your bedroom."

Draco's only response to this was to blush furiously.

* * *

It was hard to believe that it was the same house as the one she'd known. The room layout was the same, as far as she could remember, but everything else was completely different. It must have taken Sirius a long time to clear out all of the Dark artefacts when he'd inherited the house, and even longer to dispel the depressing atmosphere of the place.

She mentioned this to Draco, who frowned and asked, "You've been here before, then?"

"Yes. Well, no. Not _here_, as such, but..."

"The here in your world?" Draco suggested, with a slightly uneasy smile.

"That's a good way of putting it," Hermione said, admiring the neatness of the phrase and pretending not to notice his discomfort. "But yes, exactly. The house is used as the headquarters of a group called the Order of the Phoenix, but they only moved in last year, and until then there hadn't been anyone living there for years. No one had even _touched_ it since Sirius' mother died, I don't think, so it was still full of the Black family collection of cursed items. Cleaning up took weeks – and there were _a lot _of us. And even afterwards it just felt... I don't know, tainted or something. Evil, if a house can be evil."

She paused and closed her eyes, drinking in the drastically changed atmosphere. "This place isn't the same at all. It's a beautiful old house, actually; I just never realised that until now."

Draco stopped with his hand halfway to the banister of the next flight of stairs. "Yeah, it's pretty impressive," he said, looking around at the walls and the furnishings as if he'd never seen them properly before. "I mean, I've visited my birth family's Manor – technically it belongs to me, but Sirius appointed an estate manager to look after it – and that's... well, it's something else, for sure. It's more like a museum than a house. Far too large and cold to actually live in. This place, on the other hand, is just right." He gave a wry smile. "Though maybe I only think that because this is my home."

"No, you're right," Hermione said, with perfect honesty. "If I had the choice, I'd want to live somewhere like this." Given Draco's description of the Malfoy family Manor, she couldn't help but wonder if growing up there had helped to shape his much more unpleasant counterpart. Shaking her head, she aimed to lighten the tone of the conversation with, "At least, I would now that there aren't any screaming paintings on the wall. In... well, in my world there's a portrait of Sirius' mother in the hall, and if you disturb her – by, say, closing the door – she starts shouting insults at you."

"Ah. That must really ruin your parties," Draco said, dryly.

Hermione snorted. "I can't imagine anyone throwing a party in that house, even Professor Dumbledore."

"You mean there's a place on Earth that can't be redeemed by clashing colours and tacky decorations?" Draco asked, in mock-horror. "I can hardly believe it. Dumbledore must be stricken with grief."

This abruptly reminded her of the fate of the other Sirius, the one she had known before: killed by his own cousin and mourned by the whole Order, especially Harry. Despite her resolution to be more light-hearted, she couldn't suppress a rather sad sigh. Draco shot her a quizzical look, and she grimaced. "Sorry. It's just... you know, Voldemort is back there, and people don't really spend much time fussing over parties and decorations. It's..." She trailed off, unsure of what she even wanted to say. Then, in a very small voice, she added, "I feel bad for being _here_, even though I know I wouldn't be much help if I were there."

Draco took two steps towards her and gently caught her wrists in his hands. "It isn't your fault," he said. "I know I've told you that before, but it's true, so I'll say it again." He smiled encouragingly. "That won't help the way you feel, I know – so I suppose if you want to help Dad and Severus with whatever secret plans they have, I won't stop you."

In spite of herself, Hermione smiled. "I'm not sure I have a choice," she said, very seriously. She couldn't walk away from fighting evil where she found it; she was a Gryffindor. And besides, even if she wanted to, Professor Snape would never let her.

Draco nodded. His eyes were strangely knowing, as if he understood her reasons without her having to say them aloud. "You know, I could try to help, if you wanted me to," he said, with an attempt at nonchalance. "I mean, now that I know what's going on."

"You could," Hermione agreed. "I'm sure Sirius and Professor Snape wouldn't mind; they were surprised I hadn't ever brought you along." She paused and bit her lip, before saying, "That was the conversation that led me to tell you the truth, you know."

"Because they thought you should?" It was difficult to read any emotion from Draco's face or voice, but she imagined that he was at least a little hurt.

"No, because I realised that it was the right thing to do," she said. "And that I'd known it was all along. You don't feel guilty unless you're doing something wrong."

Draco smiled and shook his head. "If only that were true." Then he sighed and, very deliberately, said, "Well, if you want to see the whole house before dinner we'd better keep going. It's bigger than it looks from the outside."

"Is it magically expanded?" Hermione asked, remembering the tents from the Quidditch World Cup.

He laughed. "No, actually. A lot of these old houses, even ones owned by Muggles, are the same. Deceptive frontings or something." He released her hands and stepped back a little, and she let out a breath she hadn't even realised she'd been holding. "Come on up," he said, brightly. "I'll show you the attics. I used to love to play up there when I was little. I suppose that probably really annoyed the house-elves, because that's where they live, but they never complained about it. Or at least not that I ever heard."

"Well, they'd probably have to iron their ears or something if they spoke ill of one of their masters," Hermione replied, with some asperity.

This brought a shocked expression to Draco's face. "You can't honestly imagine that our elves have ever been mistreated?"

"I..." Hermione wasn't entirely sure what had possessed her to say it. "No, not really," she said. "It's just that I knew Dobby in my own world, and..."

"Oh." Draco didn't wait for her to finish. "You already told me enough about me and my family there for me to figure out what they – we? – did to the poor little sod." He looked rather nauseous at the thought.

"Well, Harry tricked your – Mr. Malfoy into freeing Dobby, but he was still very hesitant about criticising his old masters." She clenched her fists. "It made me angry to see that – and honestly I don't really like the practice of keeping house-elves at all."

"It's a thing that Muggle-borns often struggle with," Draco said, a reply that she found more than a little infuriating. Before she could object, however, he redeemed himself by adding, "Sometimes I wonder if we ought to listen more than we do."

"To Muggle-borns?"

He smiled. "To anyone who comes into our culture from the outside." He turned and began to climb the stairs, pausing halfway up to say, "Of course, in this world Dobby is perfectly happy in our service, but perhaps that isn't much of an argument in favour of the practice."

Hermione smiled wryly and followed him up. "I gave up trying to force people to free their elves," she said. "I may be a Gryffindor, but I do know when something is impossible. Most change happens gradually."

"But things _will_ change," Draco said, confidently. "They have to. Muggle influence in our world is growing; it has been for years. That's why Voldemort was able to get so many followers in the first place. They were mostly just scared reactionary purebloods who didn't like the way things were going, and so rallied to his bloodstained banner." He paused and smiled sheepishly. "Or that's how Severus put it, anyway."

"That does sound rather like Professor Snape," Hermione said, imagining that man's crisp contempt for those foolish enough to join Voldemort. It would appear then that he hadn't done so himself in this world, which fitted with what she'd observed of his personality but was still something of a mystery to her. Though perhaps what really puzzled her was how her own world's Snape, who was cruel and unpleasant but not evil, had been led to become a Death Eater in the first place.

"He has a way with words," Draco agreed, oblivious to her thoughts.

They reached the attics, and Hermione looked around, thinking that, unlike the other Grimmauld, it wasn't actually a bad place for a child to play. Every dark corner had been swept out and the light let in. Even the house-elves had a nice little room, complete with tiny beds, in stark contrast to Kreacher's awful filthy nest. She smiled with approval at this; if you were going to keep elves, you could at least make sure they were happy and well cared for.

"I'm sorry for going off at you about the house-elves," she said, as she heard Draco approaching.

He wrapped his arms around her from behind, pulling her flush against his chest in one easy movement. Heat coursed through her body at the contact, and it definitely didn't help when he murmured in her ear, "Don't worry about it. I like that you have strong principles – and we don't always have to agree, you know, Hermione."

She wasn't sure if he'd deliberately said her name like that to send tingles down her spine, but whether he'd meant to or not, that was the effect. She was almost ridiculously conscious of him, of his arms around her, of his warm breath on her neck, of the taut muscles of his chest pressed against her back. Her mouth was dry and she kept having to remind herself to breathe. He wasn't even really _doing_ anything to her, just holding her in his arms, but they were alone and he was so close and so warm, and she had no words for how he made her feel.

"Hermione?" The word tickled her ear, and she shivered. She knew he must be wondering why she hadn't said anything, but she wasn't at all sure that she _could_ speak. "Are you alright?" He turned her gently in his arms so that they were face to face – and that was nearly more than she could take. His eyes were dark grey and filled with the same intangible warmth as her body, and the faint smile on his lips was maddeningly attractive. This was _Draco Malfoy_; he had no right to look so good – and yet somehow he did.

"I'm perfectly alright," she said, in a slightly husky-sounding voice, and then she leaned up and kissed him.

It didn't last long enough, but then she wasn't sure that it ever could. Draco deepened the kiss, and then somehow she was pushed up against the door frame, holding onto him as if he was the only thing keeping her from drowning. His body was so close to hers, as close as they could get while still clothed, and Hermione was almost ashamed to realise that her hips were moving of their own accord, trying to press even closer. Draco didn't seem to mind; in fact, his hands were beginning to move quite purposely upward...

There was a sharp _crack_ sound behind them, and they pulled away from one another so quickly it was surprising that neither of them got whiplash. Hermione's heart raced even faster than it had during the kiss, and she was sure that all of her blood had suddenly rushed to her face. Draco was likewise rather flushed, and looked both embarrassed and slightly guilty.

A shrill voice said, "Master Draco, Master Black Sir says it is being time for dinner." The house-elf seemed entirely indifferent to the shameless display it had interrupted, and Apparated away again as soon as the message had been delivered. Trying desperately to gather her wits, Hermione stared blankly at the place where it had been, sure that she had recognised the elf, for all that it – he – had little in common with his counterpart.

"That was Kreacher?" She knew she sounded incredulous, and she knew that Draco wouldn't understand why, but it was more than she could do to control her voice just then.

Draco straightened his clothes and pressed a hand to his chest. He still looked shaken – or perhaps just out of breath. "Mm, Kreacher, yes," he said, idly, showing that his brain hadn't yet caught up with the rest of him. Then, just as he was about to go down the attic stairs, he paused and turned back, "You knew him?"

"Yeah," Hermione said, not wanting to get into a long explanation. "But he hated everyone who dared set foot into the house. Including Sirius. Maybe especially Sirius."

Draco laughed. "Yeah, Dad always said he had a lot of trouble with Kreacher when he first inherited the place. I'm not sure what he did to change that, but as you can see there's nothing wrong with his behaviour now."

"Apart from interrupting us," Hermione said, somehow managing to smirk and blush at the same time. Draco laughed a little sheepishly, and then together they went down the stairs towards the dining room.

If Sirius noticed that their faces were pink and their clothes disordered, he didn't mention it – which Hermione thought was strange but ultimately decided just to be grateful for it. They sat in the small family dining room, where a table was set for three with a bewildering array of side plates and cutlery.

"Four courses," Sirius said, seeing the look on Hermione's face and shaking his head. "I had to argue the elves down from seven. They were quite adamant that it was important to welcome the future... well, to welcome you properly."

"I can't even think of what seven courses would be." Hermione deliberately ignored Sirius' near-slip, despite having a fair idea of what the house-elves had actually said. They were strange creatures who had odd ideas, and it was best to leave it there.

"Me neither," Sirius said, pouring wine into her glass before she could object. "It would've been ridiculous. Which is exactly what I told them, but it was still a pretty near thing." He smiled and filled Draco's glass with wine, too. "It should be a delicious dinner, though; the little terrors are excellent cooks."

And so it proved to be. Not even at Hogwarts had she eaten so _magical_ a Christmas meal. It was not quite enough to reconcile Hermione to the continued enslavement of house-elves, but it came very close. She tried not to over-eat, but, given the quality of the food, she was fighting a losing battle. She had a little more success fending off Sirius' attempts to top up her wineglass; in her own mind she was too young to drink, really, and she wouldn't have wanted to get drunk in any case. Sirius and Draco might not agree with that opinion, but – as Draco had said himself – that was alright.

_We don't always have to agree, you know._

It was an unfamiliar thought for her. In Hermione's prior experience, if there was a difference of opinion, that meant that one person was right and the other was wrong. And that way lay fierce arguments, because if the other person wouldn't change their mind it meant that _you _were wrong. Or, alternatively, self-deprecation and an admission that they knew better than you, denying your own truth in favour of theirs because you were sick or afraid of arguing with them. Of all the things Draco had given her this year, those few simple words had been what she'd needed the most.

"Away with the fairies?" Sirius asked, grinning at her presumably rather vacant expression.

Hermione shook her head and looked at him carefully. There was still something not quite right about his manner. "No," she said, softly, trying to gather the nerve to ask the question. The pause stretched out almost uncomfortably, and then, "I was just wondering what could be bothering you, actually."

"Me?" Sirius' attempt at cheerful deflection fell flat.

Hermione rolled her eyes. "I can see that _something_ is, but I wasn't sure if it was something to do with me or completely unrelated."

"You are far too sharp for your own good," Sirius grumbled. Hermione scoffed at this, but her reaction only made his face turn particularly grave. "I mean that literally; I didn't want to tell you this – or, at least, not yet – but now you won't rest until you know. And then you will wish you didn't."

This sounded ominous indeed, but Hermione's curiosity was too strong a force to be easily deterred. "After that pronouncement, I'll worry about it anyway," she pointed out.

"I know," Sirius said. "And I'm sorry for it. But you would have made me tell you anyway." He paused and took a deep breath – and Hermione, who was aware of the truth of his statement, remained silent. "Well, it concerns research taken into the nature of the Black Veil. You may recall what I said about that object when we first met: one theory is that you vanish through it into another world. But as no one who has ever passed through has ever been seen again, it seemed likely that it is a means of execution and nothing more. A portal to the land of the dead, I suppose you could say."

Hermione considered this. "Well, if that's true, it might help with the problem of Voldemort."

"Right." Sirius nodded. "That's why we've reopened the research into it. At the same time, I've set up a sideline looking into the possibility of dimension travel, to analyse how it might be accomplished. And" – he paused for a moment and looked at her, his eyes startlingly sad – "what we've seen so far implies that the energy involved would kill a person."

"What are you saying?" Hermione asked, her voice quiet and fearful, though she was pretty sure that she already knew.

"It's not a certain thing," Sirius hastened to assure her. "There are still things we haven't considered yet. Perhaps another answer will become clear in time. But for the moment it seems likely that you are... that in your own world you would have nowhere to return to."

"That I'm _dead_." Hermione finished his sentence in a whisper.

Sirius winced but didn't contradict her. "I'm sorry. I didn't want to tell you." As if that made it better!

She pushed her chair back and stood up, hardly knowing what she did as she left the room and climbed the stairs. Until she got there, she had no idea where she was going – but, looking around, she realised that she'd run to the room she'd shared with Ginny the previous summer. It was clearly still used as a guest room, and as the bed was already made up she collapsed onto it, feeling cold and empty and wishing she could cry.

"Hermione?" Draco sounded almost afraid. She didn't look at him, but she didn't tell him to leave her alone, either, so he stepped inside the room and shut the door behind him. "I know I wanted you to stay here," he said, softly. "But I wanted you to _choose_ to stay here."

He sounded thoroughly miserable, so Hermione could only believe that he was telling the truth. She rolled over and looked up at him. "I'm sorry," she said. "It's silly, but... yeah, I'd hoped to have the choice, too. Even if it would've been the most difficult choice I ever made."

Draco smiled faintly and walked over to sit on the bed next to her. One of his hands gently stroked her hair. "I just..." He started to say something but then faltered and fell silent, frowning. After a moment, he said, "I think... it sounds stupid, but I'd even rather you chose to go home. I'd rather be miserable myself than see you be miserable."

Surprised, Hermione looked up at him. He seemed almost painfully sincere, and she couldn't help be touched by the sentiment. "That's what they say love is supposed to be," she murmured.

His eyes fairly glowed at her. "I'm glad that I'm doing something right, then," he said. "Because I'm honestly not sure what to do or say in a situation like this." He gave a quiet, hollow laugh. "I didn't even imagine situations like this existed."

"Nor did I." Hermione gave a wry, slightly twisted smile. "And I... I'm not even sure how I feel about this, so I can't expect you to know how to help." It was true; her emotions were disordered and confused. The idea that she was dead in her own world – and that by extension the soul or spirit of this Hermione was likewise gone – was disturbing and more than a little frightening. Even disregarding that aspect, she couldn't go home again, not ever, not if what Sirius had said was true. That idea was awful, of course, and no less awful for the fact that part of her had been _relieved _to hear it. And why not? Objectively this world had far more to recommend it than her own did. But... it still wasn't _right_.

"Well, whatever you need," Draco said, smiling in a warm way that she couldn't quite emulate. He shifted along the bed so that he was closer to her, and stroked her face softly. "I just can't believe..."

Hermione cut him off. "Don't," she said, sharply, her voice quivering a little. "I don't want to talk about it, not now. I just want to... well, I want everything to be normal, but I can't have that I'll settle for pretending that it is. Just for a little while."

"Now, _that_ I can help with," Draco said, leaning forward and pressing his lips against hers in a kiss that, despite his words, was more chaste and comforting than was normal for him. And, while kindness and comfort were all very well, they weren't what Hermione needed. Her hands slid up his back to tangle with his hair, pulling him closer to her and wordlessly demanding more.

Draco had never been slow to take a hint, and he certainly wasn't now. The intensity of his response was everything she could've wished for, and it took her breath away, awakening in her a desire that burned right through her fear and grief and confusion. Her senses were on fire and her thoughts had scattered on the wind. He was the only thing she was aware of; his body on top of hers, lips and tongues and teeth duelling for dominance – a battle she was losing, though it hardly seemed to matter.

Then his hand began to edge along her thigh, under the skirt she'd worn because she'd thought it'd make her look pretty – stupid vanity, but very useful now – and her body tensed in anticipation. She knew, intellectually speaking, what he was about to do, but knowing and experiencing were two completely different things. Perhaps it should have frightened her, at least a little, but she was only eager for him to continue. It was exactly what she needed.

So, of course, he stopped.

"What...?" Hermione broke away from the kiss and frowned at him.

"I... it's just that I didn't want to take advantage of you, since you're upset." Draco was scarcely any better able to form words than she was.

She sighed. "Draco. You're very sweet, but right now I'm only upset because you stopped." His mouth seemed to hang open a little at this, and Hermione did blush a little at her own daring. "Really. Please, Draco. I need this. I need to forget."

"I don't know if..."

"Please?" Hermione wasn't sure how she'd got the nerve to talk this way. She just knew that she wanted him to keep going, wanted him to touch her, wasn't sure what she'd do if he didn't.

His lips twitched slightly. "Oh, don't think I don't want to." There was a slightly desperate tone to his voice that made her shiver. He lowered his lips to hers, but rather than kissing her again, he murmured, "Well, if you're sure..."

Their lips met in a kiss that was fierce and needy, almost violent in intensity. His hand was once more on her leg, gliding softly up over the sensitive skin of her inner thigh – and this time he didn't stop.


	21. Side By Side In Orbit

**Author's Notes:** Well, January wasn't quite as productive as I'd hoped, but since the reason for that was that the company I work for might (probably will) be going bust, I'll have loads more time to work on writing next month... Thank you all so much for your patience while I wasn't updating, for all the reviews, follows and favourites on this story, and just for reading it in general. I write much better and more regularly when I know I have an audience.

Anyway, here we are. This is the last chapter before the Second Task. That will be posted according to the schedule on 13th February, but alas it is not very romantic. You can't have everything, I guess.

* * *

**21\. Side By Side In Orbit**

Perhaps predictably, Hermione did not find it quite so easy to forget what Sirius had told her once she'd returned home, not the next day or any of the days that followed. And, as her mother was an observant woman, it could only be so long before she noticed that Hermione was troubled and asked her about it.

"You've been rather out of sorts since you came back from your boyfriend's house." This was over breakfast about a week later, her mother pausing in between putting a plate of toast in front of Hermione and pouring herself a cup of tea to ask the awkward question. "He didn't try to..." She hesitated, looking awkward and a little uncertain, but then rallied. "Well, to make you do anything you weren't comfortable with, did he?"

Hermione nearly choked on her toast and tried not to blush too furiously. Her mind was inevitably drawn back to that afternoon, to the activities in which she had been a very willing participant – but it wasn't exactly something she wanted to share with her mother. "No, not at all. He's not that sort of boy, Mum; he wouldn't do that."

"Hm." Her mother frowned slightly, and she sounded doubtful as she said, "Well, I did _think_ that he seemed like the nice, respectful sort, but of course you can't always tell just from appearances." She looked away for a moment, then her head whipped back around sharply. "Or was it that Sirius?"

"Mum, no!" Hermione was horrified. "How could you think that?"

"You never know," her mother said, darkly. She didn't say anything for a couple of minutes, absently stirring sugar into her tea. Then she looked up and nailed Hermione with her most piercing stare. "So, what _is_ the problem, then, if that isn't it?"

Hermione hesitated and bit her lip. What could she say to that? The truth wasn't an option; either her mother wouldn't believe her – or she _would_, and would be devastated by the loss of the daughter she'd loved and raised, and resentful of the interloper in her home. Hermione didn't want that, knew she couldn't take it, not after everything else. "I don't know what you mean," she said, awkwardly.

"Darling, really." Her mother gave a sad little smile and shook her head. "You were fine, then you went for dinner with Sirius and Draco and, aside from the morning after that party on New Year's Eve" – Hermione's cheeks flushed slightly again – "you've been distant and... I don't know, almost sad-looking."

"I don't know if I can really explain," Hermione said, hesitantly. "But it isn't... I mean, it wasn't Sirius or Draco's fault." Technically that wasn't _entirely _true – though Sirius had only told her the truth at her insistence, so perhaps it was her own fault. She sighed and wound a curl around her finger. "It's just... I don't know, I shouldn't have expected so much from myself."

There were all sorts of awful ways that her mother could interpret that, and Hermione cursed herself the moment she let the words out. Fortunately for both of them, what her mother seemed to take from it was relatively innocent. "Oh, darling. Are you struggling with the Tournament you're competing in? Or are you just worried about it?"

This was a decent enough cover story, as far as Hermione was concerned, so she pulled a face and said, "Not so much worried as... I don't know. I still haven't figured out everything about the Second Task, and Sirius and Draco believe in me so much, so how can I ask them to help me? They think I know absolutely everything." While that feeling of helplessness under the weight of expectation might be a complete fabrication in the present situation, it was at least a feeling that Hermione had a great deal of experience with. She'd often found it difficult to ask anyone for help, because she was the know-it-all, and so of course she must already know the answer. _All_ of the answers.

Her mother also understood the feeling, and smiled at her. "Yes, it can be very hard to be as intelligent as you are." She took a sip of her tea. "Perhaps you could tell me about it? I don't know anything about magic, of course, but sometimes just talking things through out loud can help."

"Yeah, you could be right," Hermione said, thinking about times she'd managed to solve a problem in the time it took to explain her difficulty to someone else. "I'll go get the card with the clue on it."

She had tucked in away in the corner of her small travelling case to study over the holiday, but so far had spectacularly failed to do anything about it. Suddenly it didn't seem quite so awful to her that Harry had neglected to figure out all of the Tasks in his Tournament – though, of course, _he_ hadn't been doing his schoolwork either. It had annoyed her at the time, and still did, but she was beginning to accept that other people were responsible for their own lives, and that she should let them make their own mistakes. And try not to say 'I told you so' in the aftermath.

Card in hand, she returned to the kitchen. "The fake griffin egg contained this clue. It's a riddle, which I suppose isn't really something you need to have magic to solve." A Muggle could have solved Professor Snape's logic puzzle in the protections for the Philosopher's Stone, after all, where a great wizard might have struggled and failed.

"I imagine some magical knowledge will be necessary," her mother said. "But I can look at it regardless." She took the card from Hermione and frowned over the clue, silently mouthing the occasional word as she read through the puzzle. Hermione had looked at it so often that she knew the entire verse by heart at this point, so she had no need to hear it read aloud. Instead, she occupied her mind by watching and wondering what new insights her mother might bring.

"Hm." She sounded thoughtful. "You'll have to reclaim something you hold dear from a guardian of some sort, after three tests. But I'd imagine that you already worked out that much." When Hermione nodded, she took a closer look, and after a moment came back with, "The _rapid raging guardian _is a very interesting turn of phrase. Suggestive. I think it refers to _water._ A strong current, perhaps? It's just that those would be very odd word choices, otherwise. Especially the word rapid. Raging rapids, though... that usually means white water." She looked up from the card with a faint smile. "I hope you remember how to swim."

"I... of course I do," Hermione said, a little stunned by the sheer speed of her mother's thought processes. She ought to have realised that herself – and perhaps she would've done, if her head hadn't been full of thoughts about magical creatures. "Perhaps knowledge of magic only complicates solving parts of this."

Her mother laughed. "Knowing very little does force me to look for a simple solution." She reached over and squeezed Hermione's hand. "I'm not sure you magical folk are very good at that, for all your great and wonderful powers."

Hermione could only laugh – because, after all, her mother was absolutely right about that.

* * *

Draco found it amusing when she told him about it, during their rounds on the Express back to Hogwarts. He found both the Muggle world and Muggles themselves very interesting – and had an OWL in the subject to prove his knowledge – but somehow managed to avoid the rather patronising enthusiasm shown by Mr. Weasley in her own world. Exclaiming over every little thing as if it were the most adorable idea ever was not, as it turned out, particularly conducive to gaining any real degree of understanding. Or to not offending the people in whom you were so interested.

"I do sometimes wonder if we – magical people, that is – have lost the ability to think clearly." Draco shot her a wry smile, before turning to level a stern look at a third year who had been just about to throw a half-eaten Cauldron Cake across a compartment. "We use magic for so many things that maybe we've lost – or never even bothered to learn – basic problem solving skills. Just wave your magic wand, that'll sort it out." He suited the action to the words, and then gave a lopsided grin that made Hermione's heart jump in her chest.

"It's not _quite_ that easy, you know." She smirked. "You have to _learn_ all the magic first."

"Well, yes, that's true," he conceded. "And obviously I'm not saying that it's a _trivial_ thing to do. If there weren't still some magic that we don't understand, Dad wouldn't have a job." He tugged restlessly on the ends of his hair, which was just beginning to curl under at his collar. "But you know what I mean, right? The first thing we ask, given a problem, is 'what spell do I use to solve this?' We don't often think about non-magical solutions."

"And so where there's no easy magical solution, we end up missing things that might be obvious to Muggle?" That made sense to her. Draco nodded. "Yeah, my mind was going through all these possible guardian beasts, and then my mother pointed out a strange thing about the wording..."

"And you realised the truth." Draco finished, with a flourish and a smile.

"Well, more or less." Her mother had given her rather more help than that, of course, but she didn't quite like to admit it. Draco believed that she was brilliant, after all. "In any case, I still don't know exactly what sort of water I'll have to face. If there's a strong current, it might be best to conjure a rope, like I did to climb the cliff in the First Task. And then I'll probably have to think about breathing underwater. Though I can cast a Bubble-Head Charm very well now – I've spent the last couple of days practicing it – so I doubt I'll have to ask Professor Snape for Gillyweed."

"Gillyweed?" Draco frowned at this, reminding her that he hadn't been privy to their teacher's offer.

"Oh, right. I told him about an incident in" – she looked around and lowered her voice – "my own world, where someone was accused of stealing Gillyweed from his stores. And he said that if I ever needed any for the Tasks, I had his permission to take some." For some reason, she found that she preferred not to talk about the fact that she'd seen the Triwizard Tournament before. It felt almost like an admission of cheating, even though the difference in the Tasks made that utterly ridiculous. Still, she couldn't shake the feeling, however irrational it might be.

"Oh." Her explanation had only partly alleviated Draco's confusion, it seemed. He shrugged. "Well, it would be a solution if you needed to be underwater for a while, but as far as I know you can't cancel it early. So the Charm would be the better option in almost all cases."

"That was what I thought. She nodded, pleased that Draco agreed with her assessment. Then another thought occurred to her. "Oh, I wonder if I should pass some of this advice along to Harry."

"Potter?" The warmth had drained from Draco's voice, replaced by something close to contempt. "Why would you help him? You're meant to be competing with him."

"He told me about the griffin," she said, simply.

"Ah. So you feel like you owe him." Draco grimaced. "Yeah, I can see that you probably ought to say something. For fairness' sake, if nothing else. But still, he's _Potter_."

"And he's my _friend_, Draco." Hermione stressed the word, barely able to contain her exasperation. "Which you ought to know by now."

"Know, yes. Understand, no." Draco sighed and shook his head. "Sorry, it's just that I've never seen anything like a redeeming feature in Potter, but since you call him your friend he must have at least one."

Hermione wanted to protest that this wasn't fair, but then imagined what her own world's Harry would have said to her if she'd claimed that Malfoy was her friend. This was a similar situation; she could hardly expect Draco to like Harry when, as far as she could make out, the other boy had never given him any reason to do so. "I don't think he likes you very much either." She didn't ask why, despite her natural curiosity on the subject; something told her it probably wouldn't make pleasant hearing. "So I suppose he wouldn't care about showing you his good side. Though I think he's at least been _trying_ to be civil to you for my sake."

Draco grimaced and looked away, almost certainly aware that he had not been doing the same. "Yeah, I'd noticed," he said, in a strained voice. "But I guess I convinced myself that it was some sort of trick on his part, so I wouldn't have to respond in kind."

"It's hard to be angry with you when you're so honestly critical of yourself." Hermione reached out and gently squeezed his arm.

He looked up and flashed her a grin. "Good, then it's working."

"Sneaky, aren't you?"

"How can I be, when I own up to everything?"

Her first reaction was to snort, but then she thought about it a little more. "You... I don't know. Have you ever found that it hurts less to point out your own faults than have someone else do it?"

"Yeah. It does." Grey eyes met brown, and a warm rush of understanding passed between them. Hermione had learned that particular lesson from her classmates, from primary school onwards. She wasn't exactly sure where and how Draco had learned it, but maybe it didn't matter why he understood her so well, only that he did. In most things, at least.

"You know, even I'm not sure why I'm friends with Harry here." It was mostly an attempt to break the intense silence before it became too... _dangerous_ for the train corridor, but that didn't make it any less true. "If that makes sense."

"Yes, of course it does." Draco nodded slowly, looking thoughtful. "So... is he very different?"

This question caused Hermione to hesitate, because she really wasn't sure to what extent this Harry was different from her own. Perhaps all the similarities she thought she saw between the two were nothing but wilful self-deception. He might really be as awful as Draco said he was, and she had just refused to see it. "I think you'd like my Harry," she said, finally, because it was true. If they had ever met, they would have been great friends – after they'd each got over the shock of the other behaving completely unlike their usual self.

"I'll take that as a 'yes', then." Draco smirked in a way that she knew she _ought_ to have found insufferable.

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Take it however you like."

"Oh, I will." The look on his face suggested that he might not be thinking of quite the same thing as she was. She scowled and poked a sharp elbow into his ribs. He yelped. "Hey, what was that for?"

"You know very well what it was for." It was hard to remain stern and serious given his melodramatic and obviously faked expression of hurt and betrayal. "You and your innuendos will be the death of me."

"You'll be fine." He flashed her a lopsided grin. "But I'll try to behave."

Hermione met his eyes and saw them sparkling with barely restrained mischief. She snorted. "Oh, I very much doubt that."

* * *

It was more difficult than she'd imagined to find a moment to talk to Harry about the Second Task. Telling him anything that she – or her mother – had deduced was almost certainly against the rules, after all, so she knew she had to be careful to avoid the appearance of collusion. Flagging him down in the halls as he'd done to her before the First Task was out of the question; she would have to wait until they met accidentally to broach the subject. Usually that wouldn't have been too difficult – but now that she actually _needed _to talk to him, it seemed that he was never alone.

Under any other circumstances, she would have been pleased to see that he was now more popular with his Housemates, and that he and Nadya looked very comfortable together, but this happiness on his part was interfering with her plans. She didn't like finding herself in the position of resenting Harry's other friends; it wasn't exactly _jealousy_, but it was far too close to it for her peace of mind. She couldn't help it, though. How could she be fair and honest and principled if Harry never gave her the opportunity to help him?

Eventually, by luck or design, an opportunity presented itself. They were the last two left in the Charms classroom, Professor Flitwick having stepped into his office to retrieve something, and so there would be no one around to witness their conversation. Hermione smiled. It was as good a time as any, and perhaps the best opening she could hope for. Better to seize the moment before it could slip away.

"Harry? Do you have a minute?" She wasn't sure why she felt nervous about talking to him. Was it only fear of getting caught?

He tucked his quill neatly into his bag before turning to smile at her. "I always have time for you." His lips twitched slightly. "When I don't have a lesson, I mean – and I'm free right now. Though I'm kind of surprised that _you_ are; I thought you were doing every subject."

Hermione snorted, though she had the memory of her third year to show that this wasn't actually the most ridiculous thing he could've said. "No, I do get some time off, even if it's not as much as most people. I'm free now. Lavender went off to her Divination class, which she does instead of Arithmancy, but our timetables don't line up exactly."

"I see how it is." Harry grinned. "Your friend's gone off and left you, so you decided you'd have to make do with me."

"I wanted to talk to _you _particularly." Hermione knew that he wasn't really offended, but felt it best to clarify anyway. "But we'd better get out of this classroom before the third years arrive for the next lesson."

"That could be awkward." Harry slung his bag over his shoulder and headed for the door. "So let's go."

She led him down a seldom-used passage that would take them, in a roundabout fashion, to the library. Once they were out of sight of the main corridors, she stopped and signalled that Harry should do likewise. "This is probably far enough out of the way."

Harry raised an eyebrow. "Why, what terrible things do you want to do to me in private?"

"Not whatever you're thinking." Hermione hoped her face hadn't gone too red. "I just... well, you told me about the griffins for the First Task, so I owe you for that. But I didn't want anyone to see me helping you. They'd think we were cheating." Which, technically, they were. She grimaced. "I mean, I can't imagine that Nadya would like that much."

Harry swallowed. "Of course not. I understand completely." He hesitated and looked around in an exaggeratedly casual manner. "So what was it you wanted to tell me?"

Hermione managed not to laugh at his sudden and obvious concern about possible eavesdroppers. "Oh, it was just something that you might not have noticed or realised – because I didn't either, not until I showed the clue to my mother."

"You asked your mother to help you with the Triwizard Tournament?" He frowned, appearing confused about the value of such a course of action. "But she's a Muggle! What could she be able to tell you about... well, anything to do with magic?"

Hermione scowled at him. "She's an intelligent woman. And solving a riddle doesn't actually require the ability to cast spells." Harry's only response was to shrug, driving her to add, "Of course, if you think you're above accepting help from a Muggle, I won't bother you with it."

Harry ran his hands through his hair in agitation. "Don't be like that."

"How am I _supposed _to react to your comments, then?" she demanded, her eyes flashing in anger. "You can't insult my family and then tell me not to be offended. It doesn't work like that." He made no reply, and hardly seemed to be repentant – so she gave full vent to her feelings. "Sometimes I wonder why I even bother to defend you."

"I haven't the faintest idea either," he snapped back. "I certainly didn't ask for help from..." His mind caught up with his mouth and cut off the rest of the sentence before Hermione could really explode at him. "I'm sorry," he said, more gently. "I don't... I don't really think that Muggles are awful, you know. I just think that their world and ours should be kept apart."

"And never the two shall meet?" Hermione inquired, rather archly.

"Something like that." He sounded almost relieved. "I don't want to rule over or hurt Muggles, I just want them to _leave us alone_."

The last words seemed to pierce Hermione's soul, draining out the anger like air from a punctured balloon. She had assumed from the first that Harry had a good reason to dislike his step-father, and from the tone of his voice and the look on his eyes it would seem that he did. Still, it was quite a stretch to go from hating one unpleasant Muggle to disregarding the opinions of anyone without magic – and it was a glaring contrast to the Harry from her world, who'd never said anything of the kind despite his own terrible relatives.

"Where would that leave Muggle-borns, though?" Hermione asked, because she couldn't leave well enough alone. Harry shrugged, dismissing her entire life and all – well, most – of its troubles in one disinterested gesture. She wanted to hit him, but couldn't. Because she understood him, even if he stubbornly refused even to _try_ to understand her. Because he was _Harry_. She sighed heavily instead, then took in another breath, held it for ten, and slowly let it out again.

Only then did she say: "It's water, okay? The third of the tests involves water. Bring a towel."

She turned and walked away before he could even begin to make a reply.

* * *

She sat alone in the crowded common room, her anger and distress keeping other people at bay. A book lay open before her, but she wasn't really reading it, and couldn't have told anyone what the current page said if her life had depended on it. Her thoughts were not on her Charms homework, but back in the past, reliving that conversation with Harry. She ran over his words in her mind, wondering if there was anything she could've said to convince him, anything that she could say in the future to change his mind. Probably not – but that wasn't the answer she wanted.

Someone touched her shoulder, and she startled and flinched away before realising that it was Draco. "What's wrong?" he asked, not even bothering with any preliminaries. She obviously wasn't alright, so what would be the point of asking that?

He wasn't the sort to say _I told you so_, and she knew that, but she still didn't like to admit it when she'd been wrong. If she really had been. Harry was a good person, wasn't he? She knew that. She'd seen it. He just... didn't express himself very well sometimes. That was all. "Harry and I had a disagreement." She sounded stiff, almost angry, uneasily aware of Draco's perceptive gaze and the likelihood of his seeing through her uninformative answer to the sorry truth beneath.

To Draco's credit, he controlled himself well enough that only a very slight smile got through. His hand briefly tightened in a comforting squeeze, and he said, "I'm sorry. It's never nice to fight with your friends."

Hermione wasn't sure what he intended by this statement, especially given his last words on the subject of Harry, so she didn't quite know how to respond. "No, it's not." If he was angling for details, then he would have to do better than that.

"Did he not believe you?" Draco was not one to give up easily.

"He didn't believe that anything a Muggle said could possibly be helpful." She glared at him defiantly, but when he didn't take the opportunity to laugh or crow, she sighed and looked away. "I told him off, but I'm not sure he cared. I don't even know if he listened."

"I'm sure he has his reasons." It was impossible to miss Draco's disdain, but he was at least trying to be fair and reasonable, which she appreciated. "Did he say anything that upset you?"

"What, apart from that my mother could never be useful in matters of magic?" The sarcastic reply escaped her before she could do a thing to stop it. "No. Well, actually, that's not entirely true. What bothered me the most was when he spoke of totally separating the magical world from the Muggle one, which..."

"Completely ignores the issue of Muggle-borns, right?" Draco gave a rueful smile. "Considering who you are, that was kind of insensitive of him. You'd think he'd know better."

"He's a bastard." Hermione was as surprised as Draco by the words that had come out of her mouth.

"Well, I wasn't going to go quite _that_ far." His eyes had gone wide. "Not that I'm about to contradict you or anything."

"Of course not." Her laugh was dry and mirthless, sounding almost like a sob. "I don't know. It was awful, because... maybe you were right about him, and maybe I was just seeing what I wanted to see all along. But he's _Harry_ – I don't want to hate him. I _can't_ hate him." To her embarrassment she realised that she was close to tears, and hurriedly looked away from Draco before he could notice. "It's all such a mess."

"I know." The soft pressure on her shoulder turned into a gentle one-handed massage that she found reassuring, if not exactly _calming_. "It's hard. People can be dicks sometimes, even people you want to like." He snorted quietly. "God knows I've been an arse to you before now, but you always seem to forgive me for it."

Hermione smiled at him despite her shimmering eyes. "Because I love you, remember?" The words brought a devastating grin to his face that distracted her from her sorrow as well as anything could. "You think I should forgive him, then?"

Draco shrugged. "Should? I don't know. I just think you won't be happy unless you do."

"There's probably more truth in that than I'd like there to be." Hermione grimaced. "I suppose I will forgive him, although I don't even know if he's likely to apologise." She didn't remember contrition being a big part of her own Harry's personality, and she had no reason to believe that this one would be any better in that – or any other – respect.

"Well, it's for your benefit, not his." Draco reached over and closed her neglected book. She frowned at him. "You weren't reading it anyway. And besides, now I'm here you have much better things to do." He paused to allow her time to become really embarrassed, before smirking and holding out a different book. "Here. It was in the Library at Grimmauld, but I got Dad to send it. I thought it might be useful."

Hermione took the old leather-bound book and looked at the title. _The Rule of Three: A History of Tests, Provings and Trials. _She looked up again, touched by his concern. "Thanks, Draco. I'm sure reading this will be a better use of my time."

"I can think of an even better one than that." He raised a suggestive eyebrow, and she knew that this time he really _did _mean something worthy of her blushes.

"Mm. I'm sure you can." She laughed quietly, her eyes showing her interest in his unspoken invitation. "Maybe later."


	22. Dance Into The Fire

**Author's Notes:** This chapter is going up a little early (and with only cursory editing) as I'm not sure if I'll have internet access tonight. Please forgive any mistakes – though don't hesitate to point them out. (I do enjoy reading reviews, by the way; the main reason I don't answer them is because I would be tempted to say too much and "spoil" you. The answer to a lot of the questions people ask in reviews is just 'wait and see'.)

Anyway, here's the Second Task!

Chapter 23 will be posted on schedule on **27****th**** February**.

* * *

**22\. Dance Into The Fire**

Time moved on, as it tends to do when no one is paying attention to it, and almost before Hermione knew where she was, it was the evening before the Second Task.

Unusually for her, she didn't study at all that night. She'd already crammed her brain as full of facts and helpful spells as anyone possibly could, so surely trying to learn any _more_ would only risk dislodging something important. Or, at least, that was Seamus' argument, and while Hermione could easily have destroyed such a flimsy premise, she really didn't want to. A voice in her mind, unfamiliar and treacherous and tempting, whispered that she could allow herself to have fun _sometimes_. Sitting around the fire with her friends would be relaxing, and wasn't that exactly what she needed?

No one mentioned the upcoming Task, or the Triwizard Tournament at all, which she could only assume was deliberate on their parts. She was grateful for the kindness, and though she wasn't usually very interested in gossip, she found herself drawn into Lavender's stories about who had said what to whom, and who was in trouble with which teacher. It wasn't _malicious_ gossip – it usually wasn't, though Lavender could sometimes skirt very close to the line – and so Hermione felt no qualms about enjoying listening to it.

At some point the topic moved from discussing other people's problems onto the ever-popular subject of gently poking fun at one another. It was not unkindly meant, though sometimes it became a little too pointed for Hermione's peace of mind, and it was such an integral part of the group's dynamic that she couldn't even think of changing it. No one judged anyone else, even if no one _really_ believed Neville when he claimed that he only read _Witch Weekly _for the gardening articles. And they did their best to listen, though not even Hermione understood anything Dean said about football.

But then, as Draco had said once during a similar evening's entertainment, they were all pretty ridiculous, so why _shouldn't_ they laugh at each other?

After some time had passed and several low blows and innuendos had been laughed off, the banter quieted down and a familiar suggestion was aired. "We should call a house-elf to bring us some cocoa." Draco was fond of his home comforts, and could usually be relied on to bring this up. Not that anyone else was inclined to _object_, of course. "With marshmallows."

"They won't bring us marshmallows anymore." Seamus scowled and elbowed his friend in the ribs. "Not after last time."

"Hey, that was _not_ my fault."

"Says you."

"Boys." Hermione's voice was just sharp enough to catch their attention. "What's done is done. There's no point fighting about it."

"But it's..." Draco stopped speaking abruptly and laughed at himself. "No. You're right. It's not. Better just to order what they will bring us, eh?" It wasn't technically allowed, as the Hogwarts elves were supposed to keep out of sight when students were around, but Seamus and Draco had built up a rapport with some of them over years of sneaky kitchen visits. Their tiny friends were only too happy to help nice wizards who treated them like people – and everyone knew that Professor McGonagall didn't care about what happened in the Gryffindor common room.

Still, even this longstanding friendship with the kitchen elves wasn't going to get them to forget what had happened last time with the marshmallows. Not that Hermione minded; she liked hot chocolate – or cocoa – just fine without any accompaniments. She raised the mug to her lips and took a tentative sip, enjoying the flavour despite the scalding heat. It wasn't an uncomplicated pleasure, for her; how could it be, when it involved manipulating house-elves and breaking a school rule? Her friends didn't care about such things, though, and she'd learned the hard way that no one liked being lectured.

As if she'd just read Hermione's thoughts, Parvati leaned over and patted Draco on the arm, speaking in a deliberate stage whisper. "Going out with you has really loosened Hermione up, hasn't it?" His only reply was a faint snort. "Oh, you... I meant that she used to at least make a _token_ complaint about the rules when we did this."

"Maybe I just have more important things to worry about right now." The words came out a little sharper than Hermione had intended, but as they were true she could hardly bring herself to regret them. Still, her friends had been making the effort to avoid talking about the Task, and then she'd gone ahead and mentioned it anyway. "Or maybe I've just realised that there's no point in lecturing any of you."

"But we did so enjoy knowing we were doing something wrong." Lavender's eyes shone with suppressed mirth. "How are we supposed to feel rebellious now?"

"Buy some marshmallows at the next Hogsmeade weekend." This prompt reply caught Seamus by surprise, and he spluttered dangerously as he discovered that laughing with a mouth full of hot chocolate was an even worse idea than it sounded.

"Damn it, don't do that while I'm drinking!" He hadn't quite got enough of his breath back to sound annoyed, so had to settle for a rather peevish strained croak. Frowning suspiciously at her, as if he thought she'd erupt into a variety act the moment he put his cup anywhere near his mouth, he took another sip of the drink and swallowed quickly. "Seriously, I thought I was choking!"

"It wasn't that funny," Hermione protested.

"Ah, but the key to good comedy is _timing._" Draco's smirk was trying to take over his face, as far as she could tell.

"Bad timing in this case." Seamus sighed deeply, which made him start coughing again.

"I suppose we don't really need to be lectured on breaking the rules." Lavender patted Seamus on the back, probably harder than was really necessary, but otherwise seemed largely unconcerned about his predicament. "We seem to be good enough at punishing ourselves without that." Then, just as Hermione began to think that the rest of the night would be given over to jokes of varying degrees of silliness, Lavender added, "But seriously, I think you two are good for each other." The warmth and sincerity of the words was touching – so of course someone had to ruin it.

"Though not good for me." Seamus tried to look morose, but his grin kept interfering with the effect.

"Seamus." Lavender's voice was light and cheerful, but something about the tone warned him not to argue. "Shut up."

* * *

It was not entirely unexpected, but Hermione was still surprised to find that she felt much calmer – and managed to sleep a little later – on the morning of the Second Task. Apparently walking into a potentially life-threatening situation in front of hundreds of people was only utterly terrifying the first time. On _this_ occasion, it was only mildly terrifying, and the dreams of being swept away by a violent current were less unpleasant than those she'd had before the First Task, when griffin talons had torn at her defenceless flesh.

Still, she was awake well before breakfast would be served, and could find nothing to do but stare at the ceiling and think about the Task. Who would they take for her to rescue? She had been a hostage the last time this had happened – a fact that she'd found rather sad, since why should _she_ be the person Viktor would miss most? – and so she wasn't sure exactly how the Champions found out who was missing. Would it be only when she reached the end and saw who was imprisoned there? Or would they tell her in advance, as an incentive to hurry her rescue?

And who would they take? Logic dictated that it would be Draco – or did it? Ron had been Harry's hostage, after all, while Fleur's had been her little sister, so it might not be that simple. Who would she sorely miss? A good many people, including Professor Snape, which would surely raise a number of eyebrows if _he_ were chosen. Perhaps she just ought to hope that they'd go the obvious route of taking her best friend or her boyfriend. That would be the safest option.

Sighing at the tangled nature of her thoughts, Hermione rolled out of bed and spent a few minutes looking at herself in the long mirror. _The Champion of Hogwarts._ She looked the same as she always had, and was certainly no taller or grander than she ever had been, and yet she now had this momentous-sounding title. It was ridiculous, and yet it was real.

She turned away from the mirror and went to get dressed. The hour of the Second Task was upon her.

One thing that did not get any easier was the waiting. Once again they were shepherded into a holding room to await the beginning of the Task, and once again no one seemed to be handling it well. Although this time Harry and Nadya stood very close together, and their body language was such that when she saw them exchange a brief kiss Hermione wasn't surprised at all. It hadn't exactly been hard to see that one coming, even if some people still managed to get the wrong end of the stick about her own relationship with Harry. Which was honestly just about the last thing she wanted to think about just then.

The Minister and his bodyguards appeared, followed by Ludo Bagman and the older Barty Crouch, who seemed to be enjoying far better health than his counterpart had by this point in the competition. Looking at him, Hermione was suddenly struck by how little she knew about what was going on. There was a plot, that much was obvious, but it wasn't _the_ plot, the one she'd been expecting. So what on earth was she supposed to do?

_Keep moving forwards.__ And stay alert._

She nodded as the resolution took shape in her mind, recognising it as all she could do – and Kingsley, seeing the gesture, nodded back with a slight smile on his face. Perhaps he was remembering the last time they'd spoken – how much had happened since then! – and the words they'd exchanged on the strange situation. If only she could trust him! But there was no way she could afford to take the Auror into her confidence. Too many things were uncertain, and too much was at stake. She summoned up an answering smile anyway; it never hurt to be polite.

"Now, then. As you will all have learned by solving your clues, you will face three tests in a race to save your hostage. I'm sure you'll be relieved to hear that all Champions will undertake the Task at the same time, so no one will have to wait for a chance to get in on the action." Fudge's patently insincere joviality grated on Hermione's already strained nerves, but she had to admit that he wasn't wrong. It _was_ a relief to know that this time there would be no waiting and wondering – though it being a race was slightly disconcerting for someone who was better at doing things well than quickly.

Of course, there'd still be marks awarded for dealing with the tests cleverly, even if she wasn't the first to reach the end. As long as she took less than the hour time limit, all would be well and she'd still have a chance. Although... since when was she thinking about actually winning the Tournament, rather than just hoping she wouldn't embarrass herself? Had the success with the griffin and the praise she'd garnered for that given her the impression that she could win? Or was it the knowledge that she'd probably never go home, driving her to be the best she could be in this strange world?

Well, whichever it was, there was no more time for thinking. She tuned back into Fudge's impromptu speech to find that he and his retinue had come to lead them down to the location for the Second Task. The Minister referred to it as 'the Chamber of Trials', and though she knew the man was an idiot, Hermione still felt a faint thrill of excitement when she heard the name. Part of that was probably just because the moment had arrived at last – but it did sound momentous.

Unfortunately, when they laid eyes on this impressively-named structure, it didn't look particularly momentous. Near the edge of the Forbidden Forest was a wooden grandstand, and in front of that, just inside the Forest, was a grassy bank with four large openings cut into it. There wasn't much to see down any of these passages, but Hermione knew that they must extend for some way under the earth. Instead of underwater, the Task was to be _underground_. How anyone was supposed to be able to see what was going on, she had no idea.

"Behold the entrance to the Chamber of Trials!" Fudge sounded far too pleased with himself. "There are four paths of equal length through the maze, but they all end up in the same place. The room where the Champions' hostages have been taken." A ripple of excited murmurs passed through the crowd, and Hermione's stomach seemed to turn over. She knew that her hostage wouldn't be in any real danger – or, at least, her brain knew it. The rest of her body seemed to be having trouble with the idea.

"The judges have taken their seats, so the Task will now begin. Champions, take your positions!" This was a singularly unhelpful command, but fortunately the Minister's aides were on hand to shepherd each of them to the correct doors. There was time only for a few murmured words of luck and encouragement before Hermione stood before one of the openings in the bank, peering with some trepidation into the darkness.

"Let the Second Task begin!"

Minister Fudge was enjoying himself far too much, Hermione thought, hurrying off down the narrow passageway. It was only six inches or so taller than she was, and the floor seemed slightly damp beneath her feet. Then again, as the tunnel sloped inexorably downwards into the earth, perhaps that was only to be expected. The walls were wet, too, and glistened oddly as she drew her wand and cast a quick Lumos to dispel the darkness around her. It ought to have been cold, really, but the air was warm and bone-dry.

The reason for this became clear as she rounded the first corner in the passage to find herself in front of an ornate archway, filled with leaping blue flames instead of a door. Despite its unusual colour, the fire was furiously hot, and Hermione knew that trying to pass through it would be foolish in the extreme. This was a puzzle, not a leap of faith, a conclusion borne out by the stone slab that had been laid in front of the barrier, engraved in a simple script. _Its source is its undoing._

Its source? Did that mean she had to figure out which point the fire had originated from and then extinguish it there? Or was there another meaning? Out of curiosity and a desire to stall for time, she recited the counter-spell to the blue flames, one of the first incantations she'd ever learned. Nothing, but that was only to be expected. She had to solve the clue and determine exactly where the _source_ of the leaping bluebell flames might be.

_Bluebell flames? _That wasn't just a cute nickname Hermione had given her faithful friend in a jar; it was actually the name of the spell. The Bluebell Flame Charm. _Now, that's an idea. _Perhaps it was stupid and wrong and wouldn't work, but it was better than not trying anything. She took a deep breath, extinguished her wand light, and conjured a small bunch of perfect delicate bluebells. Nothing happened immediately, so she extended the flowers towards the flame – and the instant the two touched, the fire disappeared.

Hermione stepped through the archway, both relieved and a little disappointed. That hadn't been hard at all! Still, there were probably more archways to come. She could already see a second one, and was willing to bet that there would be others beyond that. And each would have a trick that, if solved correctly, would pacify the flames. _Wisdom shields you through the fire_. It wasn't a clever metaphor after all, just the literal truth.

She smiled to herself and walked on.

The second archway contained red fire, and Hermione didn't know the proper name for that spell. With any luck she wouldn't need to know this time. The engraving on the floor slab read: _Get to the heart of the matter_. That was... less than helpful, to say the least. There were any number of things that could mean, and she could only hope that she didn't have to present it with an actual heart. Not that she could have done so anyway; that fell under Gamp's Exceptions, and no one could expect her to break the laws of magic.

It had to be something easier than that. _The heart of the matter_. The heart. Did fire have a heart? What did it mean to talk about the heart of an inferno? She was sure she remembered something like this. A memory from her Muggle days, from when a fire-fighter had visited her school. Yes; the heart was the centre, usually the hottest part. Was that all it meant, this clue? That she should extinguish the fire from the centre outwards? Would that even work? She had no idea. Still, there seemed to be no penalty for being wrong except failing to advance, so what did she have to lose?

"_Aguamenti_." Aiming was the hardest part; even after a good deal of practice, she still found it difficult to control the water spell. Not that it mattered, as the flames stubbornly refused to be extinguished – and yet there was no hissing or steam either. Was that part of the magic, or was the fire just... not very hot there? She wordlessly Summoned a long stick and carefully pushed it towards and _into_ the bright red barrier. It seemed incredible even to imagine that it would pass through the flames unharmed – but that was exactly what happened.

Hermione stared at the stick for a moment before shaking her head and beginning to circle it around, testing out the boundaries of the 'safe' area by watching the wood for signs of blackening. Once she had a clear idea of how much space she would have – and it was not a particularly large circle, even if it _was_ technically big enough for a person – it was time to test her conclusion in a rather more dramatic manner. She would need to pass through the fire herself, trusting in her wisdom to shield her, just as the clue had said.

Though she knew, intellectually, that the fire would not hurt her, it was still incredibly hard to extend her hand towards it. She held her wand ready, a spell for healing burns at the front of her mind, but despite her fear and reluctance, her left hand passed through the wall of fire without pain or injury. So far, so good – but now she came to a larger problem. How was she supposed to get her body through the safe zone? Should she attempt to dive through like a performing dolphin through an invisible ring? _Could_ she do that?

_Are you a witch or not?_

The remembered words slammed into her brain so suddenly that she nearly staggered backwards, which would likely have been disastrous. It didn't matter; she knew now what she needed to do. Pointing her wand at her own body, she murmured, "_Mobilicorpus_." The spell wasn't often used that way, but that didn't mean it _couldn't_ be. It was strange and more than a little unpleasant to operate her body in such a manner, as if it were some bizarre magical version of a ventriloquist's dummy, but it was _safe_, and that was what counted.

She landed in a tangle of limbs when cancelling the spell didn't work quite the way she'd envisaged, but quickly jumped up and dusted herself off. No time to lament her deplorable lack of grace and elegance. If the pattern of threes held, there would be one more fire gateway to breach before she could move on to the next test. She had no idea how long the first two had taken, but this was a _race_, so speed was of the essence.

The third fire barrier was that sickly green colour usually referred to as "acid", though Hermione had never seen any actual acid that colour. It looked fiercer than the red fire, and she knew instinctively that there would be no cold spots in this portal. Its engraved stone doormat read: _What would kill me only feeds me. _And then, underneath, an odd string of letters and symbols that she vaguely recognised as being something to do with formal logic, a subject only barely touched on in Arithmancy classes, but more familiar to Muggles. It was... she frowned. She _knew_ this. It was something she'd seen before. So why couldn't she remember?

Putting that aside briefly, she considered the phrase on the stone tablet. It had to mean that any means that would normally dispel this sort of fire would instead make it worse. Which meant no water or counter-spells, unless she wanted to singe off her eyebrows. So what _would_ kill it? Her eye hovered over the symbols under the written line. Ah! Of course. "As A implies B, so B implies A." The statement worked in reverse! Anything that would normally amplify this sort of fire would extinguish it here!

That only left the problem of what sort of magical fire she was dealing with. Acid green flames. There couldn't be that many variants in such an ominous colour, the colour of the Killing Curse. She wracked her brains in increasing desperation, trying not to give in to her rising panic at the inconvenient blank spot in her knowledge or memory. It was... it had to be something she knew! There were only so many types of magical fire in existence!

_Haigh's Folly_. The name came to her just as she was about to give it all up and start screaming. It was as vicious and destructive as it looked, and the incantation was...

"_Ignis acerbus!"_

Matching green fire gushed from her wand to feed into the doorway's inferno – which, instead of growing larger, showed definite signs of shrinking. For the third time she'd been right. It was working. She pushed more power into her spell, feeling a rush of satisfaction as the fire in the gateway shrank and sputtered and, eventually, died.

She had succeeded. There were no more burning archways to be seen in the passage ahead of her, so she could only conclude that she had successfully navigated the Trial of Wisdom. Hermione took a deep breath, tried to find her composure, and went on towards the next test. The Trial of Courage.

The engraving was on the wall this time, and it was not a poem or a clue but a series of disjointed sentences. Questions. Disturbing questions.

_What do you fear, Champion?_

_The darkness?_

_Blood and pain?_

_Or perhaps the unknown?_

_The sounds that approach when you cannot see?_

_Hold your nerve. To bolt is to die._

Hermione read the words silently, her heart sitting in her throat and blocking her attempts to breathe normally. Ahead of her, beyond the writing on the wall, there was a room decorated with spikes and suspicious empty spaces in the floor. Those would be the _blood and pain_, presumably – so where were the other horrors mentioned? Somewhere in that room, she was sure. It had obviously been deliberately constructed to unnerve her, but knowing that didn't stop it from succeeding in its purpose. She pushed her fear away, and stepped forward into the challenge room.

The lights went out, plunging her into darkness. She stopped dead, unwilling to take another step when she knew that there were spikes and pitfalls around. To navigate this room she would need light. She raised her wand again and tried to cast. "_Lumos_."

Nothing happened.

The darkness was part of the test. Of course she wasn't allowed to summon light. But then what was she supposed to do? Take her chances in the dark?

Before she could take a single step, however, the lights came back on again, so suddenly that she flinched. In the brightness she could see exactly where not to walk, and took three good paces before the darkness returned, all the more menacing for having briefly receded. But she wasn't afraid, exactly. She imagined that the lights would continue to flash on and off, allowing her painfully slow but steady progress across the room. Which was a test of patience, perhaps, but not courage, unless one was afraid of the dark. Or claustrophobic, fearing the tight tunnels and the weight of earth over her head.

Hermione looked up anxiously, though of course she could see nothing. But before worry or fear could consume her, there was another brief moment of light. Another three steps of progress. Before the darkness fell once more.

And then she heard the screaming.

There were no words, or none that she could make out. Just screams, desperate and terrified, in painfully familiar voices. One in particular that tore at her heart. _Draco_. What were they doing to him? Why had she assumed that he – presumably her hostage – would be safe?

"Hermione!" The voice was strained and high-pitched. Pleading or accusing, she couldn't tell which.

_I need to save him.__ This is __**my**__ fault._

Light burst across her vision again, and the screams abruptly stopped. Hermione moved forwards on shaking legs, her breathing fast and uneven, her heart racing. She couldn't waste what little time she had. The lights went out. The screams started again, their tone more urgent, more definitely accusing. There were still no words except her name, but she could hear the meaning clearly, so clearly. _You did this to me.__ You __**failed**__ me._

Draco would never say that. But that didn't mean he would never feel it.

It was only when the lights snapped back on and the screams cut out mid-howl that she realised what was happening. _The sounds that approach when you cannot see. _It was part of the Trial. The screams weren't real. No one was really torturing Draco. The magic of the Chamber was working on her fear of failing someone she loved, the thing she feared above all else. He was fine. Professor Dumbledore would never allow a student to be hurt. She took several deep, calming breaths, forcing comforting thoughts into her head – and completely missed her chance to move.

Still, it had left her in a better frame of mind to deal with the darkness and the screams, so she could hardly consider it that much of a loss. Even though she'd realised it was all a trick, the terrible sounds still cut through her, and it was all she could do to hold her place while the darkness lasted. She managed well enough with the aid of breathing exercises, though, and so after a few more minutes the room's magic evidently decided that it was time to try something else.

This time when the lights went out, there were other sounds, ones that seemed far closer to her. Something with too many legs skittered past just in front of her, accompanied by the clicking of monstrous mandibles. Something was out there, some terrible insect – except it wasn't really, was it? It was nothing. Just another trick. The room was empty.

Something spindly and hairy and far too large brushed across her face.

Hermione gave a strangled yelp and leapt backwards, keeping herself safe even in her blind panic. The thing – the leg? – followed her, and she realised that it wasn't any more real than the screams. Standing still while it touched her was horrifying; her knees trembled and she could feel tears running down her face. Over and over she ran through the words of a mantra in her mind. _It's not real it's not real it's not real it's not real._ It felt real, though, and she could barely stand for the shaking by the time the lights came back.

She tried to make the paces she took as large as possible, and took comfort from the fact that she was more than halfway through the room. Whatever it tried to throw at her next, she would handle. She'd come too far now to fail.

After a few more intervals where she was brushed by various awful things – rats' tails, the stinger of a giant scorpion, an oversized centipede crawling on her flesh – the room tried something still more terrifying. In the stifling darkness, she could still hear screams and skittering – and then, without warning, it seemed to her that the world turned upside down. Literally. She was hanging by her feet from the roof of the tunnel, the ends of her hair brushing against the ceiling, and her stomach lurched to take up residence in her throat.

Her scream became a squeal or a whimper, and she flailed her arms desperately until the sharp and unmistakable sting of spikes brought her back to reality. It _hurt_. The torture wasn't real, the giant vermin weren't real, even the gravity inversion was just a spell effect of some kind. But the spikes? Those were painfully real. Cradling her injured arm close to her chest, she took deep breaths and tried to calm herself by wondering what this part of the Task looked like to the spectators in the stands, if they could see it at all. Without the context of what she could hear and feel in the dark, they would surely think that she was going mad.

Maybe she was.

Everything righted itself when the light returned, so quickly that for a brief moment Hermione thought she might be sick. She staggered forward a couple of paces and only barely managed not to run towards the exit, which was by now close at hand. Running could hurt far worse than the cut on her arm. She had to hold her nerve. But it was hard, so hard, when she knew what awaited her in the darkness.

How she made it through the last seemingly interminable section of the Trial, she never knew. It was somehow worse than the last time, in spite or perhaps because of her knowledge that she was nearly at the exit. But manage it she did, and as soon as she had light enough to see she manoeuvred past a pit trap and dashed for the far edge of the room. The lights did not go out again, and for a few moments she simply stood, one hand resting on a wall that was smooth earth without spikes, and tried to get her breath back.

There was still the third Trial to be addressed, so she could allow herself only a very short time to recover. As soon as she felt that she could move without falling down, she began to walk along the passage, wishing she felt ready to face her next test. It was only when the tunnel ended at a flooded section – so her mother had been right about the water – that she realised she was bleeding from her arm. She gestured with her wand tip just over the jagged and gaping wound, and watched as the flesh roughly knitted itself together. If only she knew a better healing charm! As it was, what she did know would have to do. Madam Pomfrey could fix the rest later.

That settled, she looked for the clue to this particular Trial – though when she found it she rather wished she hadn't.

_How long can you hold your breath?_

_Do you fear a drowning death?_

Before her the water raged and seethed, the current visible despite her distance from it. With the aid of the Bubble Head Charm she would be in no danger of drowning, but how would she manage to swim? It was a Trial of Endurance, but she had already been tested to the limits of her endurance. Only the memory of Draco's screams could drive her towards the water; though she knew they hadn't been real, she could hardly be blamed for wanting to see for herself.

It was difficult to think, somehow. Her brain felt oddly slow and fuzzy, and there was no way she could make a plan more clever than "cast charm, swim through tunnel". She took off her outer robe – one sleeve torn apart by the spikes in the Trial of Courage – and dropped it on the damp earth floor. After a few seconds thought, she took off her boots and socks as well, stepping barefoot into the freezing water.

It was much colder than she'd expected, and she could already feel it tugging at her, trying to drag her away. Resisting by sheer force of will, Hermione pushed on until she was up to her waist, then spoke the words of the Bubble Head Charm in a voice that sounded far too shrill and squeaky to be her own. With the bubble around her head she was suddenly far too hot, so she pitched forwards and went under the water, submerging herself in the cold and almost immediately regretting it.

The current tried very forcefully to guide her off to the left, but ahead of her was another tunnel, one marked with a stylised image of the Goblet of Fire. That had to be the way to go, against the countless tonnes of surging water. Hermione took a deep breath of the warm air inside her bubble, and began to battle her way towards the marked passage.

She quickly realised that swimming was impossible. The current was far stronger than she was, and she would die of exhaustion trying to fight it. Instead, she walked and clawed along the floor, walls and ceiling of the tunnel, dragging herself inch by inch towards the end of the Task, towards safety and victory and the rescue of her hostage. It wasn't easy, and on more than one occasion the relentless water dragged her back towards the start, forcing her to struggle desperately for purchase before all her progress could be lost. But, in the end, after what seemed like an eternity, she emerged at the other end and collapsed on the dry floor, gasping for breath.

It was several minutes before she had the energy even to lift her head, and when she did she saw four people shackled to the wall, either asleep or magically unconscious. She had reached the secret room first, but there was no feeling of triumph; she was far too tired for that. Staggering to her feet, she looked around and noticed three other tunnels leading into the room, presumably where the other Champions would emerge when they got this far. She wasn't sure if she wanted to see one of them appear now or not.

Hermione shook her head and removed her wand from the belt of her sodden trousers, tapping it against the chains that bound Draco's wrists in order to release him. No sooner had the manacles opened than he woke, blinking and confused – and when Hermione looked at him and realised that he was safe, that they were both safe, she burst into tears and sank back to the floor, wrapping her arms around herself and trying not to shake too much.

"Hey, what's wrong?" Draco's voice was husky and his words slightly slurred. "It's okay."

She couldn't give him an answer because nothing was wrong at all. She'd completed the Task faster than anybody else – but still... "It was awful," she said, quietly. "I heard you being tortured, and I had to scrape my way down an underwater tunnel against a current..."

"That explains the bubble," Draco said, dryly. "And I'm fine. There was no torture, I promise."

"Yeah... I knew even at the time that it wasn't real." Hermione sniffed a few times and managed to stand up again, cancelling the Bubble Head Charm as she did so. Draco hugged her fiercely, but then drew back suddenly, looking at a red stain on his hand.

"You're bleeding."

The water must have reopened her wound. "Spikes."

He looked at her arm closely and whistled. "Wow. That must've hurt."

"Yeah." Hermione suddenly remembered to be self-conscious and patted the soaked tangles of her hair. "I must look pretty awful."

Draco smirked. "A bit, yes."

"Thanks."

"Hey, you've been through a lot by the sound of it." He rested his hand gently on her shoulder, ignoring how wet and dirty she was. "How about this: once everyone's finished and we've seen the scores, we'll go back to the castle and sneak into the kitchens for cake and cocoa."

It sounded good, if only to get away from all the people who would want to talk to her. She grinned. "Do you think they'll let us have marshmallows?"

Draco put a hand over his mouth, but he couldn't quite keep the laughter from spilling out.


	23. Find The Man Inside

**Author's Notes:** Before you read this chapter, remember that, as we are not yet done with the story, things are not as simple as they may at first appear...

Chapter 24 should make an appearance on 12th March according to the schedule. There really aren't that many more chapters left to write, 3-4 at most. I might even manage to get the whole story posted within a year of its start date.

* * *

**23\. Find The Man Inside**

"Miss Granger, if you would indulge me for a few minutes?"

A flustered Hermione looked up from her efforts to pack her Potions notes into her overstuffed schoolbag to see Professor Slughorn standing in front of her desk. Surprised and confused by this attention, she got as far as: "I'm sorry, but I have to get to..." before remembering that she'd been told that morning that her Ancient Runes class was cancelled. "Actually, sir, I do have a few minutes."

"Excellent!" Professor Slughorn beamed down at her benevolently, and went to hurry the other students on their way out of the room. "Now, Mr. Malfoy, as charming as young love is, I am quite certain that you will be able to survive without her for five minutes." Hermione didn't hear Draco's reply, and didn't dare look around to see if his face was as red as hers felt.

At length the room was cleared, and Hermione, left alone with Professor Slughorn, belatedly wondered if she perhaps ought not to have let herself get into such a situation. Her only defence was that she had not been quite herself since the events of the Second Task. The harrowing trials remained in her thoughts – and, when she slept, her dreams. It had been disturbing to confront her worst fears in such a manner, and she was unlikely to forget the experience any time soon.

In any case, she thought that she should have been more alert, and realised exactly what Professor Slughorn's request would mean. Now she was alone with him, and the classroom door was closed. If he was a Death Eater under Polyjuice, as he might very well be, there was no way of knowing how much danger she'd just put herself in. Though... really, what else could she have done? And could he hurt her without destroying his own cover? The whole sixth year N.E.W.T. class had heard him ask her to stay behind. He – whoever he really was – couldn't be that stupid.

Could he?

Hermione resolved to take as much control of the situation as she could. "You wanted to speak to me about something, sir?"

Professor Slughorn turned away from the classroom door and walked back to where Hermione stood waiting. "Yes, I did." He smiled a little, but somehow the effect was a long way from cheerful or comforting. "You have a great deal of potential, my dear, and I find myself questioning how much you gain from my lessons."

This was not at all what Hermione had expected, so much so that for a moment she was at a loss for an answer. In the end, she went for the diplomatic option. "Well, the opportunity to practice under the eye of an expert..."

She had realised some time ago that it wasn't strictly necessary to finish her sentences when talking to Professor Slughorn. "Quite so, quite so. But still, I wonder if perhaps there is more that I could do."

"I don't know." Hermione looked at him in bewilderment. "I hadn't thought about it."

"That surprises me, since Severus must have made you the same offer at some point in the past." The old man smiled; evidently he was not offended. "A good man, Severus. I taught him myself, and I always knew he would do well for himself. And now here he is as the youngest Head of House in a century, and credited in the Daily Prophet as the mentor of a Triwizard Champion – and the frontrunner at that!"

Hermione shifted uncomfortably. "It isn't... I suppose I just assumed that you'd be too busy to give extra work or lessons like Professor Snape. You have your own Club to worry about." Hopefully that sounded enough like flattery to satisfy Slughorn's vanity.

"Ah, yes, the Club." Perhaps it was her imagination, but his smile did not seem quite as brilliant as it usually did when his pride and joy was mentioned. "I'm sure that you will be one of its most distinguished members, especially if you were to actually _win_ the Tournament!"

Something about his word choice bothered Hermione, but she couldn't pinpoint exactly what. She struggled to find a safe reply, eventually settling on: "It's still too early to say that, sir." This meeting got more mystifying by the second.

"Well, perhaps." Those shrewd little eyes were alarmingly cold all of a sudden, she realised. "But I don't think it's too early to consider you something of a threat to my plans." His voice had changed; it had lost its jovial heartiness, become something cool and calculating and _dangerous_. She ought to have expected it to happen, but she'd trusted in her enemy using logic and common sense – which apparently he was not.

"Your... plans?" Hermione could imagine what they were, given what had happened in her past, but was at a loss to see how she was a threat to them. If he was afraid that she might win the Tournament, it would be much easier simply to hex her before she could take the Cup. All he could do now was blow his cover. She _knew_ that, knew he couldn't hurt her – and yet she didn't believe it. Her limbs trembled, and she found it hard to meet that cruel gaze and seem unaffected.

"Well, not _my_ plans. Perhaps it is a little presumptuous of me to call them mine." He grinned – a gloating, almost greedy expression.

"Your master's plans, then." Hermione surrendered to the old familiar urge to show off how much she knew, or perhaps to her bold Gryffindor tendency towards defiance in the face of the enemy. Her hand moved surreptitiously towards her bag, searching for her wand. Despite her deeply held views on respect for authority, it was just fine to attack a teacher if they were about to attack you. And if they might not even _be_ a teacher at all.

"Yes. I wasn't lying about thinking you an intelligent young witch." It was impossible in the circumstances for Hermione to be flattered by this compliment, especially when it was followed with: "That is why it is necessary for me to ensure that you can't disrupt what I have planned."

"You want – or Voldemort wants – Harry to win the Tournament."

The man in Slughorn's skin flinched at the use of the forbidden name. "You are not worthy to call my lord by his true name. You ought to be too afraid to speak it."

_Fear of the name increases fear of the thing itself_. Harry had said that once, almost certainly quoting Professor Dumbledore. That was presumably why Voldemort and his minions were so offended by those who were brave enough to speak the name. "Perhaps I should be. But I'm not." She hadn't even been trying to stall him, but that was exactly what she had done.

He seemed to realise it too. "It doesn't really matter now." Professor Slughorn's wand was in his hand. "You will be dealt with, and that will be an end to it." The words made her shiver. "Don't worry; I hear it's quite painless. Almost... a relief, in fact. Such a burden, thinking for oneself."

And then she suddenly knew, with all the certainty and clarity of a fact read from a textbook, exactly what he meant to do to her, which spell he meant to cast. He couldn't kill her or leave any visible marks, since he had to keep his position until the Third Task. But that didn't mean that he couldn't _hurt_ her, and she'd been a fool to ever think otherwise. There was worse pain in the world than the purely physical, after all.

The situation was not quite as dire as it might have been. She'd practiced throwing off the Imperius curse before now, and she had built up a certain amount of resistance to its effects, but she wasn't anywhere near as good at it as Harry. Besides, partially successful curses had a tendency to drive the victim insane, as had happened with Crouch Snr. Better to make sure the spell was never cast, if she could. Her hand closed around her wand.

As he began to speak, she spun away from her bag, armed and ready. A non-verbal Stinging Hex caused the wand to drop from his hand and roll across the floor, and Hermione took the opportunity to make a dash for the door. She didn't reach it, as she'd known she wouldn't, but when he turned his wand on her again she managed to take shelter behind one of the workbenches. The spell bounced off one of the cauldrons on the shelf above her head with a resounding clang.

Scrabbling on her hands and knees across the floor, she waited for him to come around the desk to catch her. He couldn't let her leave for the same reason she desperately wanted to; once she was out of the room he would have lost. She'd be free to tell anyone what he'd tried to do, and if she did that he was finished. It made her wonder what on earth he'd expected to happen. Had he thought she wouldn't fight back? Or was he confident in his ability to win? Such confidence might not have been misplaced; she hadn't escaped yet, after all, and now he was between her and the door.

If only she were a better duellist!

"_Imper_–"

"_Expelliarmus_!"

The wand sailed out of the false Professor Slughorn's hand, to be caught neatly by... Harry, who had just burst into the room. Dismayed, her assailant looked over his shoulder to assess this new threat – whereupon Hermione promptly Stunned him.

"Nice job." Harry polished the captured wand on his school robes in what he probably imagined was a nonchalant manner. "Sorry; I would have come to help earlier, but I wanted to hear him say the spell aloud. As proof, you know?"

"I... yeah, I suppose so." She spoke almost mechanically, unable to look away from the prone form of the man who'd tried to make her his mindless puppet. "I should've Disarmed him myself, I know, but all I could think of was getting out of the room." She'd never been very good at forming plans in the heat of the moment; still, it was a little embarrassing to realise that once again she'd needed to be rescued.

Harry smirked. "A Gryffindor, running away?"

"A Slytherin, rescuing someone?" She rolled her eyes.

He laughed. "Okay, fair enough." He perched on the workbench next to her, following her gaze to the man who could not be Slughorn. "There ought to be someone here soon. Malfoy was outside with me – picture both of us trying to listen at the same keyhole – but when it turned nasty I sent him to fetch Snape or McGonagall or... well, anybody." Harry offered a wan smile. "They're neither of them too fond of me, so I figured Malfoy'd be the better bet."

She couldn't imagine Draco being happy to leave her, but it had been the right thing to do, and he must have been able to see that. Some girls might have been offended that he hadn't stayed and argued that he ought to save her personally, but Hermione wasn't quite that silly. Of course Professor Snape would come if Draco told him she was in trouble, even if he was in the middle of a class. He'd probably arrive soon and take over the burden of having to think about the situation.

"_Incarcerous_." Ropes sprung from the tip of her wand and wrapped around the man on the floor. He'd already been Stunned, but Hermione wasn't taking any chances. She collapsed back against the bench opposite Harry, and for the first time in several weeks actually looked at him. There was a certain tension written clearly across his face, but he seemed equally determined not to leave her. "Thank you," she said, quietly, almost humbled by the revelation that he held no grudge against her.

He relaxed slightly and offered an ironic smile. "You're welcome. But really, what else could I have done?"

"Most people would have left." Hermione wondered if in every alternate world or universe or timeline there was a Harry who was incapable of seeing his own actions as anything special. "Most people wouldn't even have realised that there was something wrong."

"It was what he said to Malfoy." Harry spoke slowly and reflectively, but he seemed rather pleased with himself. "It just didn't seem _right_, you know?"

She'd been too busy trying not to blush to notice anything amiss. "And Draco thought so too?"

"Well, that or he just wanted to wait for you." Harry shrugged. "We aren't exactly friendly enough for me to ask him. I just know he was hanging around outside, and when he saw me trying to listen at the keyhole he wanted in on that too."

In spite of everything, the idea of Harry and Draco squabbling over who got to eavesdrop was amusing. Hermione didn't quite laugh, but she did smile and roll her eyes. "Well, I suppose it turned out better than I was afraid it might."

Piercing green eyes focused on her. "Did _you_ know something was wrong, then?"

"I didn't _know_ anything," she said, which was perfectly true. "I suspected, but that's all." He didn't look satisfied with the answer. She sighed. "Kingsley Shacklebolt – you know, the Auror – told me that there was something wrong at Hogwarts."

"Apart from the Fourth Champion?" Harry snorted. "But yeah, okay, I think I'd listen to Shacklebolt, too. Judging by their promotional material, the Auror Office must think a lot of him."

Hermione could think of other reasons why Kingsley might feature heavily in such material, but she decided against bringing them up. Instead, she looked at Harry and said, "Thinking of joining the Aurors after school, then?"

"Yeah. I mean, Defence is what I'm best at, so why not?" Yet another thing that was the same about this Harry – so why did the important things have to be so different? "Did he – Kingsley, I mean – say what he thought was going on?"

"No." He'd been frustratingly reticent, though she still wasn't sure whether or not that was suspicious. "I think maybe he was undercover."

"Exciting." Harry's eyes shone. "And now _this_." He nudged Slughorn with his foot. "I wonder what's going on." His eyes narrowed shrewdly as he turned them on Hermione. "But you... you _know_, don't you?"

She'd forgotten that, since he'd been listening at the door, he would have heard her side of the conversation as well as Slughorn's. "I know some things." The only course of action was to hedge and avoid the question. She couldn't tell Harry. Not this Harry. How could she trust him? It hurt her somewhere deep inside to realise that this perfect replica of her best friend was not someone she could confide in, but that was the world she lived in now.

"Hah. And you guessed the rest?" Harry seemed amused by the idea of her bluffing, but he _was_ a Slytherin.

"Well... I still don't know who he actually is." She watched Slughorn's face, wondering if and when it would ripple and change, and who she would be looking at when it did. "I can't imagine this is the real man. Horace Slughorn is an old friend of Professor Dumbledore."

"And Professor Dumbledore could never make a mistake." Harry's voice was dry and bitter.

"I never said that." She sighed and looked away. "Still, I suppose we'll find out soon enough."

At this point the door was flung open on its hinges and Professor Snape burst in, wand drawn, his face twisted with anger and hatred. Hermione barely had time to be surprised by the expression before it disappeared, but she couldn't help but remember it. That intensity, that protectiveness... perhaps Professor Snape had manipulated her, but it was obvious that he really did care.

"Her – I mean, Miss Granger, are you alright?" he demanded, scanning the room as if he thought Death Eaters would erupt from the walls. "I see Mr. Potter decided to intervene." There was no trace of the disdain that usually accompanied talking to or about Harry. In fact, he very nearly smiled at his most despised student.

For his part, Harry responded to the lack of hostility as well as could be expected. "Well, he was trying to cast the Imperius curse on her. Sir."

"Really?" Professor Snape frowned down at the prone body. "Not that I disbelieve you, Mr. Potter. It just doesn't make any sense."

Hermione shook her head. "It didn't to me, either." While a successful Imperius wouldn't have raised any suspicion – there was a reason the spell had been so widely used by Voldemort and his followers during the war – it didn't seem to serve any purpose. "He did say that I was too clever and could disrupt their plans, but... I don't know what he meant exactly. There are easier ways to prevent me from winning the Tournament than this."

"Indeed." Professor Snape sounded troubled. "Well, we can at least question the man, whoever he is."

Hermione noticed the way Harry looked from Snape to her and back again, but she had a more pressing concern. "Where's Draco?"

"I sent him to alert the Headmaster." Poor Draco, made to run everyone's messages when he was probably desperate to know whether she was alright. Still, he was doing the right thing, the sensible thing – though that was little comfort to Hermione, who would have preferred him to be there with her. She appreciated Professor Snape's concern, but it just wasn't the same. Especially when he said things like: "We'll have to tell him everything."

Her head snapped up at these words, and she felt her heart thud in her chest. "Everything?"

Professor Snape grimaced, but he gave a short nod. "Everything." He sighed. "I suppose, really, we ought to have told him before now."

"You didn't?" Not that she was really surprised; after all, she hadn't thought to tell the Headmaster either. He'd never been what one might call approachable, even compared to Professor McGonagall. Still, with his continued defence of Professor Snape in her own world, she'd assumed that there was some history or bond of friendship there. And perhaps there was, but _there_ wasn't _here_, as everything seemed determined to remind her.

"I told no one except Sirius. And that only because I thought he could help you." He gave her a reassuring smile, and she realised that he was nervous about her reaction. Which she understood, because she was hardly happy about being forced to tell her secret – but, on the other hand, there was nothing either of them could do about that now. "I suppose that we _could_ try to explain this and our suspicions about what it means without telling the full truth."

"No, you were right. It's time. Some might say I should have told him from the beginning." And of course now Harry knew too much and would have to be told, whatever her personal feelings on the matter. That was far more daunting than the idea of talking to the Headmaster, who seldom seemed surprised by anything that anyone told him.

"I think _'should' _is putting it rather too strongly." Professor Snape's eyes were sharp and piercing as he looked at her, but his words were surprisingly soft and gentle. "You did what you thought was right."

Harry, who had remained silent until this point, suddenly spoke up. "It's pretty dull when you don't understand the conversation, you know." There was a strange glint in his eye, one that she couldn't place and wasn't sure she liked.

"I suppose you will have to tell him as well." Professor Snape's civility seemed to have dried up all of a sudden.

"It... well, it seems only fair." She'd yet to tell Lavender, might never tell her, and now here she was confiding in someone she wasn't even sure she liked all that much. "Harry... it's sort of difficult to explain, but I'm not the Hermione you think I am. I'm from another – um, I suppose a parallel dimension would be the best way to put it. And somehow I ended up here, and now I can't get back."

"Oh." Harry stared at her for a moment. "Yeah. I know."

That was not what she had expected _at all_. "You... what? How?"

He laughed. "I have my methods."

Professor Snape folded his arms and glowered. "You must know that is in no way a satisfactory answer, Mr. Potter."

"As it happens, I do know that." Harry scowled. "You had to ruin my fun, didn't you? Fine. I listened in on one of your conversations. It was pretty confusing to start with but after a while I figured it out."

"But how did we not notice...?" Hermione stopped abruptly as she realised she already knew how. "Oh, right. The Invisibility Cloak."

"You _would_ know about that." Harry smirked. "No one else does, you know. I use it when I want to be alone, and so I've never told a soul about it. Even my mother doesn't know I have it; I found it in my dad's old school trunk when I raided it before my first year. Of course, I knew what it was at once. I could hardly believe my luck."

"You have an Invisibility Cloak." Professor Snape massaged his temples. "Oh, what am I saying? Of course you do. This explains a good many things about you, Mr. Potter. Were you even trying to listen to our conversation, or were you sneaking in to steal from my Potions stores?"

"This isn't about me," Harry said, with a degree of impertinence that Hermione had never seen from him before. "It's about Hermione. So I don't have to answer that. I was a little suspicious, I'll admit; it would've taken more than a knock on the head to make you warm up to me that much."

Hermione grimaced. "So we weren't really friends?" And yet he'd shown no sign that she'd said anything amiss. Perhaps he was a better Slytherin than she'd thought.

"We were," he assured her, promptly. "Just... not all that close. Not as close as I'd have liked. And then you just said 'we're good friends' as if it was completely true, and that was all I'd wanted... which of course made me suspicious."

"Never trust something that seems too good to be true?" Professor Snape offered, his tone light but his understanding obvious.

Harry narrowed his eyes at the teacher, but then shrugged. "Yeah, I guess that's what I was thinking at the time." He paused to give a dry chuckle. "I will say, though, that the truth was not what I expected."

Hermione snorted. "I suppose it wouldn't be. It does seem... well, it ought to be impossible."

"Many things seem impossible to those who have no imagination."

This was an entirely new voice – and Hermione turned to see that the Headmaster had arrived. No sooner had she noticed this, however, than her vision was immediately obscured by blonde hair and black robes as Draco hugged her so fiercely that she had some difficulty breathing. She couldn't bring herself to mind as much as she probably ought to have done; she'd spent most of the time since Stunning Slughorn wishing he was there with her. Stifling a sob of relief, she clung to him and buried her face in his chest.

"You're okay. I'm so... I was so worried. But you're okay."

She stepped back a little, conscious of their audience – though both Professors seemed to be amused and Harry looked nothing more than bored by the display. "Yeah, it's alright. It's over. He wanted to curse me but we stopped him."

Draco was still looking at her, his gaze rendered somewhat vague by the shock. At this last comment, he managed to shake himself out of it and turned to address Harry. "Thank you, Potter."

The Slytherin's lips twisted into a decidedly ironic smile. "She would have been fine. I provided a distraction; she Stunned him." He nodded in the direction of the Headmaster. "I'm sure you'd like to know how we came to attack and subdue a teacher, sir."

Albus Dumbledore smiled behind his beard. "I am sure that you intend to tell me, Mr. Potter."

"Actually, I think it'd be better if Hermione told you." Harry reached across and nudged her upper arm. "It's more her story than mine."

Shrewd blue eyes twinkled at her from behind the Headmaster's spectacles. "Very well, then. Miss Granger?"

Hermione smiled and shook her head slightly. "Give me a minute." She disentangled herself from Draco and dragged one of the high stools over to sit on while she leant against the bench behind her. Thus comfortably arranged, she lifted her head so that she met Professor Dumbledore's eyes directly. Then she began to speak, telling him everything that had happened to her, right from the very beginning of this strange nightmarish adventure, leaving nothing out. Even Professor Snape must have been surprised by some of the details, though he kept his countenance fairly well.

When she reached the end, she stopped and looked steadily at the Headmaster, awaiting his verdict on her unlikely story. Draco seemed to recognise her need for support, as he moved closer and wrapped a gentle arm around her shoulders. He too kept his eyes on Professor Dumbledore, whose opinion on what had happened to her was the most important of all. For, if he thought her insane, there would be little to keep her from being shut up in a secure room at St. Mungo's.

"How very extraordinary," he said, at length. "I have never heard the like. Time travel, yes, but this? It is very strange, very strange indeed." He sighed, and Hermione found herself almost disappointed by his reaction. "Still, I would not dream of disbelieving you. I have too much trust in Severus' judgement for that." Despite the words, there was something not altogether pleasant about the way he looked at Professor Snape just then.

"I am gratified to hear it," that man responded, a surprising degree of sharpness in his voice. "Still, it seems indicated that there is a plot to ensure Mr. Potter here wins the Triwizard Tournament, and that Voldemort's agents consider Miss Granger to be a threat to the same."

"And Horace is an agent of Voldemort?" The long white beard quivered in agitation. "No, that I cannot believe."

"It probably isn't actually him," Hermione said, impatiently. "It's someone impersonating him – just like Professor Moody all over again."

And so it was, for when they turned their attention to the bound prisoner they found that he had transformed from a portly old man into a near-emaciated young one. It was, in fact, the younger Barty Crouch, just as it had been before, just as she might have expected. And yet Hermione took no pleasure in the revelation; after all this time and all her theories and suspicions, the truth seemed curiously unsatisfying somehow.


	24. While There's A Fighting Chance

**Author's Notes: **Pacing a story is a funny thing. Chapters 23-25 all take place on the same day, while in other places one chapter might span a week or more. It's kind of an important day, though. Not _the_ most important day in the story; I'm writing that one at the moment. (Yes, the climax is in progress as we speak. This story should be finished soon! And once it is, the remaining chapters will appear more quickly than the usual update schedule.)

To the guest who was worried about them having their conversation in front of Barty Crouch Jnr.: Yes, he was there, but he'd been Stunned, so it wasn't like he could hear what they were saying.

Just FYI: The next update should happen on **26****th**** March**, but that just happens to be my 30th birthday so we'll see how it goes. Chapter 25 should appear no later than Monday, 28th March, though.

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**24\. While There's A Fighting Chance**

It was Professor Snape who broke the silence. "That's strange. That's very strange." Hermione looked up at him, surprised, but he didn't explain. "It doesn't make..." He stopped abruptly and shook his head. "This puts something of a different complexion on the matter. I wonder when the substitution was accomplished. You must have met with him before offering him the position, I assume, sir?"

Though it seemed unlikely that Professor Snape's odd behaviour had escaped Dumbledore's notice, the direct question did at least have the effect of diverting his attention. "I did, indeed." There was more sadness than surprise in his eyes as he turned them on the frozen face of a young man who ought to have been dead. "He seemed much as ever he had been. I would assume that he was replaced after that meeting, and I can only regret that I did not take the time to talk with him outside of the regular staff meetings." He did look genuinely regretful, though how could he have known?

Feeling suddenly very guilty herself, Hermione said, "If only I'd told you!"

The Headmaster smiled, though it did not alter the sadness of his countenance. "I can understand why you did not, Miss Granger."

"I suppose I had my reasons." She grimaced. "Well, and I was suspicious of Kingsley Shacklebolt, too. I... for a time I thought him far more likely to be the secret Death Eater, though I honestly had no idea what I could or should do about it."

"Kingsley?" Harry frowned. "He was always very nice to me – to both of us! Why'd you think he might be...? I just don't get it."

"Well, he was here a lot more than I'd have expected, and I thought he might be helping you prepare." She looked pointedly at Harry, and the hastily hidden surprise and guilt on his face told its own story. "Which... well, you heard what I said to Slughorn – um, Crouch, didn't you? They want you to win the Triwizard Tournament. So of course they'd try to help you."

"Yeah." Harry didn't say anything for a few moments, apparently lost in thought. "It doesn't make any sense, though, not to me. You say the version of me you knew before was famous, so wanting him to win – and be killed – was at least understandable. But me? There isn't anything special about me." The bitterness in his voice was nearly overwhelming, and Hermione felt a sudden urge to give him a hug. "Why would the D– You-Know-Who care either way about me?"

There was only one answer Hermione could give to that. She leaned over and brushed Harry's hair back from his forehead, running her fingertips gently along the lightning bolt there. "Did you really never wonder how you got this scar?"

"Yes, of course I–" He stopped. His eyes widened. "No." In agitation, he knocked her hand away and stood up, turning away and tracing the outline of the scar with his own fingers. "_No_. That can't be... you said he survived a Killing Curse, which is crazy enough – but then to suggest that _I_ did the same thing?"

Hermione was ruthless. "No one would have known. There were no witnesses." Though... had there been witnesses in her own world? How had they _known_ what had happened that night? She pushed the thought aside; as she couldn't answer the question, it was pointless to speculate. "And Voldemort is certainly acting the way I'd expect him to act if you were his hated enemy, the only one ever to survive once he'd decided you should die."

"So... they want me to win this Tournament in order to transport me to some graveyard so I can help to resurrect You-Know-Who? That's what's really going on here?" Harry's fists opened and closed spasmodically, and his voice shook slightly as he spoke. "And this is because I survived the _Killing Curse_ as a baby, when no one has ever managed to do that before?"

"That's... yeah, that's exactly was what I was saying." Hermione did feel rather ridiculous, especially with the frankly sceptical way he was looking at her.

"I just don't even know what to do with that." Harry turned back and looked down at the still unconscious Crouch. "What are we going to do about him?"

Professor Dumbledore cleared his throat. "I shall return to my office and inform the Minster."

"Well, that's just wonderful." While everyone in the room was likely of the same opinion in this regard, it was Harry who actually voiced it. "I think that's my cue to leave."

"It would probably be better if you stayed, Mr. Potter." Under that steady blue gaze, even Harry dared not argue. He sat down with some alacrity, though he hardly looked happy about it. "I will return as soon as I can. Though I would suggest that you not... burden the Minister with tales of other dimensions." There was a warning in his voice, but a certain amount of dry humour accompanied it. Evidently he had no more respect for Fudge than the Professor Dumbledore of her own world.

Hermione gave an ironic little smile and nodded. "I'm sure he needs to know what happened today, but I'll try not to complicate matters."

"Very good, Miss Granger." The Headmaster gave what she thought was a chuckle at this, and then swept out of the room.

Professor Snape stared after him for a handful of moments, his brow furrowed as if in confusion. "I'll tell Sirius what's happened. At the very least, he ought to know about it – but the Unspeakables do as they will, so I don't imagine that the Minister could stop him from coming here if he decides that he ought to do so."

Harry's unhappiness was obvious and palpable, though he made no further attempt to protest or leave the room. It struck Hermione as cruel, given how desperately her own Harry would have wanted to see Sirius again – but, as she was so often reminded, things were very different here. She was likely missing some sort of vital context that would make his behaviour make sense.

And then Draco, who unlike Hermione had no particular desire to spare Harry embarrassment or pain, asked the question instead. "What is it about my dad that makes you want to avoid him? And don't pretend you're wary of the Minister, either – Fudge is a fool, and we all know it."

"Tactful, aren't you, Malfoy?" Harry's eyes were bright with anger and contempt. "I can see that associating with Hermione has given me a higher opinion of Gryffindors than the rest of you deserve." While this was undeniably a compliment, it came at the expense of the rest of her House, so Hermione could hardly be expected to like it. She squeezed his arm a little too tightly and gave him a warning glare. He laughed, but conceded, "Alright, maybe you're not all _that_ awful. Still, personal questions are personal questions, Malfoy, and we're not friends or anything like it."

"_We_ are, though – or so I thought." Hermione couldn't deny her own curiosity on the subject, and she didn't like how much Draco seemed to have deflated in the face of Harry's blunt rejection.

Harry looked directly at her and laughed. "Yes, we are. Well, if you're curious... I suppose it's nothing I haven't told you before now. Or, well, not _you_, but you know what I mean."

Hermione snorted softly. "I know."

"Okay, then." Harry grimaced. "The short answer is that I was already tired of being second best. I didn't need another family where I would always be _less than _someone else." His laugh this time was more than a little bitter-sounding. "But I can see I'll have to give the longer answer, or you won't understand. See, I look a lot like my father, or so I've always been told. My poor dead father, James Potter. The tragic hero, taken from us too soon. I was five, maybe six when I realised my mother could hardly stand to look at me. There were too many memories, I suppose, and it was too painful. Maybe it's unfair to blame her, but..."

"But you were a kid." Hermione squeezed his arm again, more gently this time, trying to _show_ what she couldn't find the words to say.

"Yeah. I was. And kids are sensitive." He sighed and looked at the floor of the Potions lab, tracing a pattern on the stone with the toe of his boot. She let him have the moment of silence, didn't push or press or nag him for more – and, after a long moment, he shook his head, looked up and continued the tale. "And _then_, of course, my little brother was born, and she had a son whose face didn't remind her of her life's greatest loss. And, since he was my stepfather's child and I wasn't, _he_ liked little John a damn sight better than me, too. But perhaps that's only natural."

No one would have called Harry's expression just then a smile. It was more like a wild animal baring its teeth in anger or pain than anything human. "And then, when I was seven, Sirius showed up. My mother hid herself well when she didn't want to be found, so I can only guess that she invited him. And he brought a friend – Professor Snape, which my mother seemed to find rather awkward – and his son." He nodded rather grudgingly in Draco's direction. "That was you, of course."

"It must have been." Draco's head tilted slightly to one side, and his brow creased as he thought about it. "You know, I actually _do_ remember this, now that you mention it." He fell silent for a moment, and a number of different emotions played across his face too quickly to be identified, but all he said was: "I suppose that Severus was rather awkward around Mrs. Ashworth – your mother, that is. I didn't really notice her reaction."

Hermione took mental note of this interesting piece of information. Professor Snape had said once that he had loved two women who had preferred other men: Narcissa Malfoy had been one of them, and now she thought she knew who the other must have been. How strange it must have seemed that his dearest friend had ended up connected to the children of both those women. Had it hurt him? Or had he too appreciated the irony of it?

"So you noticed it too?" Harry's words served to snap Hermione's attention back to where it ought to be. "I don't know the history there, but it must be _something_." He shrugged. "Anyway, so I met Sirius, who was my godfather and my poor dead father's best friend from his school days. I met him a few times, actually, but I decided to... well, after a while I realised that _he_ didn't really look at me either. He didn't look away like my mother did, but he would always tell me how much I looked like my father, so I think that was all he ever saw in me. And, of course, he had his own son to worry about, so I'd be second best there too." Harry's eyes flashed with anger. "I didn't want that. I didn't need another family that didn't need me, another home where I didn't really belong."

He took a deep breath, and after a moment continued, "So I told my mother that I didn't want to see him again. That I didn't want to spend any more time with Sirius and Severus and their kid." Draco made a surprised movement, but Harry didn't seem to notice. "And you know what? I think she was relieved. She didn't want any of you around either."

After a moment of tense silence, Draco spoke through gritted teeth. "You know, I remember what Dad said to me when we first went to visit you. It was a long time ago, and I hadn't thought about it in years, but I remember it now. He was excited, told me it'd be like having a cousin, maybe even a brother, someone to play with. So maybe you thought you wouldn't get all the attention you wanted or something, but don't act like Sirius never cared about you."

"He cared about my father's son." Harry's glare was poisonous. "I don't think he ever wanted or gave a damn about _me_."

"This is neither the time nor the place for your ridiculous histrionics," Professor Snape said, coldly, as he came back into the room. Hermione thought that he had never sounded quite so much like the Snape from her own world. "That goes for both of you. A girl you both claim to care about has been attacked by a Death Eater whom everyone thought was dead. Surely you can find better things to worry – or argue – about."

It was harshly put, perhaps, but it wasn't _wrong_. Fascinating as Harry's old grievances were, there was a more pressing matter at hand. The boys turned towards Hermione – to apologise or make excuses, she didn't know which – but she waved them away. "He's right. We need to focus." She looked past them and spoke to Professor Snape. "Did you manage to get hold of Sirius, sir?"

"I did. And I am quite sure that the Headmaster left the room exactly so that I could do that without his official knowledge." There was a sly smile curling the edges of Professor Snape's lips. Hermione remembered the Time Turner rescue from her third year, and thought that he was probably right in his suspicions. "At any rate, Sirius is going to stir up interest within his department, and we'll see what develops from that."

"So he won't actually be here?" While Hermione definitely wanted to see him, and she knew that Draco must feel the same, such a meeting could be nothing but awkward for both Harry and Sirius.

"I am sure that he will show up at some point, if only to reassure himself that no harm has come to Draco." Professor Snape seemed unbothered by the potential complications – but perhaps he was right that they weren't all that important. In the face of a plot to resurrect one of the most terrible Dark wizards of all time, personal feuds and disagreements would have to take a back seat. "But I must confess to feeling in need of his insight. Something here is wrong."

"So you felt it too?" Hermione felt better about her own doubts for knowing that they were shared. "I mean, I know it's exactly what we expected, but somehow it just doesn't really fit."

"The surrounding events are wrong." Professor Snape's authoritative voice cut easily through the confusion of the situation. "If all were as it should be... well, you told me that the young Crouch cursed his own father, which ended up driving the man insane. But Crouch the politician hasn't behaved abnormally at all. So what happened this time? How did _he"_ – a dismissive sneer at the still unconscious Death Eater – "escape from Azkaban, and how is he here?"

"I have no idea." Hermione felt the twinge that heralded a headache starting behind her eyes. "But I agree that it needs to be explained somehow."

Draco was looking between them, his brow creased with confusion, but just as he opened his mouth – to ask for an explanation, most likely – they heard the too-loud footsteps and booming voice of Minister Fudge approaching down the corridor. The door to the Potions classroom swung open, exposing them to Fudge in full flow, right in the middle of some pronouncement or other.

"...simply do not understand how such a thing could happen! Can you explain how a dead man could possibly_..."_

The voice cut out abruptly. Fudge was staring at Barty Crouch, who, in spite of the improbability of it all, was in fact right there.

"Ah. Yes. I see what you mean." The Minister cleared his throat. "It would indeed appear to be... the man you said it was."

"My son." The elder Barty Crouch had just joined the Minister in the room, and his voice fairly vibrated with pain and remorse. Looking at him, his entire expression and demeanour appeared to be stuck somewhere between sorrow and contempt. "I had not thought it to be true, and yet it is. My son, who died fourteen years ago. I... he was dead. I thought he was dead. _T__hey told me he was dead_." He took a clearly audible deep breath. He fixed his eyes on the motionless body, and in a voice that trembled, he said, "And yet here he is."

"Indeed." The Minister was agitated, wringing his hands as though he had no idea what to do, which he probably didn't. "Well, we shall have to get to the bottom of this." He looked at Professor Snape. "I take it that there are stocks of Veritaserum that we could use for questioning?"

The Professor raised an eyebrow, and he smiled in a particularly sharp and ironic manner – but all he said was: "I believe there is some, yes. Although as young Crouch was posing as the Potions Master, I am not sure how far I would trust any potions in the cupboards here."

"Well, perhaps it would be better to question him back at the Ministry in any case." Fudge sighed. "Dawlish, take the prisoner into custody. I will have Shacklebolt question the witnesses." The Minister waved at one of his attendant shadows, and it was with a sense of inevitability that Hermione watched Kingsley Shacklebolt step up beside him. Who else would it be? It was unlikely that Kingsley, whatever his true aim might be, would spend so long haunting Fudge's steps only to be absent at such a critical time. Of course he had come here now, and of course he would want to find out what she knew.

"As you say, Minister." He bowed to Fudge in a manner that was very nearly sincere, and then addressed Hermione. "Since he attacked you, Miss Granger, perhaps I should begin by asking you some questions? We can, I hope, use the office?"

"By all means." Professor Dumbledore seemed unconcerned, more preoccupied with watching Dawlish levitate the unresisting body of the criminal, but Hermione could not be so sanguine. Having just managed to escape one situation where she had been alone with a man of uncertain loyalties, was she now to walk blithely into a second? "Perhaps Mr. Potter should also accompany you? From what I understand, he heard most of the altercation, so he may be of use."

Hermione smiled. Even when he seemed not to be paying attention, the Headmaster knew exactly what was going on. She felt guilty that she had ever doubted him. "It might be easier," she said, noting that neither Harry nor Kingsley seemed opposed to the suggestion. Rising from her seat, she reached out to Draco – who was _not_ invited to the conference and didn't look happy about it – and squeezed his hand. He tried to smile, but she knew that they would need to have words later. But... _later_. She didn't have the time or the strength just then.

She followed Harry and Kingsley into the office, and they were soon shut away for their questioning session – whereupon the Auror surprised them by dropping into the desk chair with the startling declaration: "I _knew_ something like this was going to happen."

"You knew that Slughorn was an impostor?" Hermione could believe that, though she didn't think Kingsley would admit it even if it were true.

"I knew he wasn't right." The Auror levelled a frankly calculating gaze at her. Then he sighed. "You don't know what I know, of course, so you could hardly have had any idea that there was anything amiss with him. It was a bad situation, and you handled it as well as anyone could expect. I should've made my suspicions clearer, perhaps, but I was taught to play a lone hand and it's hard to shake your training."

"Mad-Eye... I mean, Alastor Moody trained you, didn't he?" Hermione remembered that much, at least.

"He did. How did you know?" The tone of Kingsley's voice was more curious than suspicious, but she would still have to be careful.

"Sirius Black told me. I mentioned having seen you at Hogwarts a few times, and he told me a little bit about you." It wasn't a lie, even as it left out a few pertinent details. "He said that Moody was a loose cannon."

Kingsley laughed. "That's fair enough. The Old Man was a Dark wizard hunter, not a law enforcer. He did what he had to do and drove the whole Auror Office crazy. People expect me to be like him, but I'm not – much." He looked around the room and sighed, the last traces of his smile fading. "Except when I am. And even then I'm not as good as he was. Still, there's nothing to be done about that." A grimace flashed across his face. "Suppose you tell me what happened today, and then I'll tell you what I think is going on."

Hermione exchanged glances with Harry. This was _not_ normal behaviour for an Auror, she was sure of that. "Why would you explain anything to us?"

He looked a little startled – but only a little. "I have behaved rather strangely, these past few months. You might have noticed." There was a dry note in his voice. "It has been a strange situation, but the point stands. Besides, if today is any indication, you are both in danger, and I do not subscribe to the usual Auror philosophy of protecting people by keeping them in the dark."

"And you've already done as much as you can to protect Harry without telling him what's going on." Hermione enjoyed the stunned look this brought to Kingsley's face. "It seemed the only logical reason why you should be so interested in him." Well, it wasn't the _only_ one, but she wasn't about to tell him that she suspected he might be another Death Eater impostor, especially as she could offer no basis for the suspicion.

"Clever." Kingsley smiled, seeming impressed. "And that's another reason... but we'll get to that. Now, tell me – what happened today?"

Harry and Hermione shared a look; he raised an eyebrow inquiringly, and she shook her head ever so slightly. They were not going to tell Kingsley the truth of her origins, any more than Professor Dumbledore was about to tell the Minister. And so the story they told was confined to the events of the day, Hermione performing most of the narrative duties with occasional interjection or elaboration from Harry. She was grateful that her friend – for she could hardly think of him as anything else, now – allowed her to choose how much to reveal to Kingsley. It was somehow even more of a service than saving her had been.

At the end, Kingsley nodded gravely and jotted down a few notes that Hermione wished she could read. "That's troubling." He tapped his quill against the side of his nose. "Crouch clearly thought you a threat to something, and you're probably right that it was something to do with the Tournament, but what? It must have been very important for him to take such a risk."

"I'd wondered that myself." Even her extra knowledge was no help here.

"Well, in any case, I shall tell you what I know, which isn't that much, unfortunately." Kingsley looked chagrined. "I should make it clear that I am telling you this because I may want your help in the future. If You-Know-Who is trying to return, there's no point in trying to shelter you from the truth now you've already thwarted his agents. And I've been watching your progress in the Tournament – you're both clever and brave enough to be a credit to the Auror Office." Here he smiled. "If I ask anything of you, it will be out of respect for your capabilities. Keep that in mind."

Harry cleared his throat. "So, what was it you wanted to tell us?"

"Well, that was part of it. But as to the rest... it concerns old Moody."

"I'd got that impression," Hermione remarked, dryly.

Kingsley frowned. "Mm. Well. As I've said, the old man was my mentor, but he's been retired from active duty for five years or so now. I visit him every so often, once a month or so, and keep him up to date with what's going on with me – and at the Ministry. This particular time was odd, because Moody sent me an owl asking me to visit, as he'd had a curious invitation." He paused, seemingly to organise his thoughts. "Professor Dumbledore had asked him to be the Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher, which Moody said was a sign that he was truly desperate. Because, really, the Old Man is _not_ fond of children."

"I take it he refused?" Harry was trying to look bored and failing.

"Well, I assumed he was going to." Kingsley left a dramatic pause. "But then, just as I arrived, there was a great commotion out by the bins. I met Moody coming out of the house, and we went to investigate together. We were attacked by three men – or, well, robed figures, at least." Here he gave Hermione a smile and a knowing look. "We drove them off, all right, but we didn't manage to capture any. They helped each other flee, so it must've been important not to be caught. Moody said after the fight that their duelling style made him think they were or had been Death Eaters."

"Followers of V – of You-Know-Who?" This didn't surprise Hermione, as she knew it must have happened in her own world to a Moody without a convenient former student to back him up. Still, it was odd to think that Slughorn had been Voldemort's second choice of stalking horse.

"Exactly. A lot of them have grievances against Moody, and rightly so, but the timing seemed a little suspect. He'd been invited to teach, and then he was almost immediately attacked by probable Death Eaters. We thought that they might have wanted to scare him off – so Moody obviously then wanted to go and teach, just to see why they didn't want him to. It took quite a lot of effort for me to persuade him to let me handle it instead, but he listened in the end. I wanted to find out what they planned to do at the school that the Old Man's presence would have prevented."

"Now it looks like they wanted to get rid of him, replace him with their agent, and get that teaching job here at Hogwarts." Hermione knew that much was true, and as it was obvious enough there seemed no harm in saying it. "I just don't get why. The false Professor Slughorn blew his cover and... oh!"

"What?"

"Professor Slughorn! The real Professor Slughorn! What happened to him? Is he dead? Or... would Crouch need to keep him close to hand to get ingredients for his Polyjuice potion?"

Kingsley's mouth hung open. "Oh, dear God, I never even thought of that." His chair scraped across the stone floor as he pushed it back. "If he's still alive – no, he must still be alive; you need living tissue for a Polyjuice potion – we should try to find him. Crouch must have kept him somewhere close by."

"What, you think there's anywhere in this school where he wouldn't be found by the house-elves, or a curious student?" There was a mocking note in Harry's voice, and he smirked as if he had said something clever. "I doubt it."

Remembering what she'd been told, Hermione said, "You can... I mean, isn't it true that you can get trunks that are big enough on the inside to fit practically an entire library? I'd imagine you could get a body inside one of those."

Kingsley slapped the table so violently that an inkpot fell on the floor and shattered. He ignored it. "That must be it. Or... at least, it's a good place to start. Let's go find the false Professor's trunk."

It took both Harry and Kingsley to move the enormous piece of luggage out of the Potions Master's private rooms, through the office and into the classroom, while Hermione kept ahead of them and held the doors. When they reached the lab, the Minister and the Headmaster were engaged in a quiet but intense discussion – it involved a lot of glaring and arm-waving – while the elder Crouch had perched on one of the benches and was talking to Draco. Hermione was rather surprised to see him still there, but supposed that if he'd come at Fudge' s request he might have to remain until the Minister decided to leave.

Kingsley looked over at Fudge and Professor Dumbledore, and perhaps wisely decided not to interrupt. Turning to Crouch, he said, "We suspect that the real Horace Slughorn may be in one of the compartments of this trunk. Were any keys found on y... on the prisoner?"

Crouch scowled at the near-slip, but nodded towards the teacher's desk. "Try the desk drawers." His rather dry voice seemed completely level and steady now, in stark contrast to his earlier anguish. "There was nothing of note found in the prisoner's pockets."

Before he'd even finished speaking, Kingsley was swinging a bunch of keys around his finger. He approached the chest and set about trying them in the locks, eventually hitting on the correct one and throwing the compartments open to the curious onlookers. The first four contained various books, papers and doubtless illegal artefacts. But when Kingsley opened the fifth...

A man's unconscious body lay within the trunk, his breathing loud and rasping, his size sadly diminished from the Slughorn they had seen in the classroom, a good many hairs missing from his luxuriant moustache. Kingsley dragged him out into the room and began to cast diagnostic spells over the inert form. Attracted by the commotion, the Minister and the Headmaster left their corner and came to watch.

"Poor Horace." Professor Dumbledore sounded shaken, much to Hermione's surprise and alarm. He'd always seemed in control of the situation, and she'd always assumed that it was true. His uncertainty was almost as frightening to her as the attack itself had been. He sighed. "Perhaps I ought not to have offered him a job here after all."


	25. For Everything A Reason

**Author's Notes:** I'm sorry this is so late. But there _is_ good news! In writing terms, Chapter 31 is complete and work has begun on 32, which will be the final chapter. Once I've finished writing and taken some time to proof-read everything, the rest of the story should appear on the site pretty quickly. I should know better than to give deadlines, but this story should be completed before 26th April (a year since I started posting it).

Chapter 26 will be posted on **9****th**** April**. With any luck, the writing will be finished by then, but I'll update you when we get there.

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**25\. For Everything A Reason**

Professor Slughorn – Hermione couldn't help but think of him as that, even though she knew he wasn't the one who had taught her – was still worryingly unresponsive, and so was taken away to St. Mungo's. Kingsley wore a grim expression as he escorted the Healers out of the building, and she couldn't help but worry that they might have found him too late. Should she have spoken of her suspicious before this? And would she have prevented at least some of the damage to the elderly Potions expert if she had?

"So... do you reckon that Kingsley's alright?" She looked up at Draco as he addressed her. They were sitting a little apart from where the Headmaster was talking intently with Sirius and Professor Snape, which allowed them some privacy for their discussion. Harry was nearby, but had so far shown no sign of wanting to join them.

She sighed. "Probably? I mean, he did have his reasons to want to investigate Hogwarts, and we could check his story with Moody if need be, so I think it's probably true."

"Unless Moody is a Death Eater agent as well," Draco pointed out.

"Well, yeah, that's why I didn't say he was definitely okay." Hermione snorted. "Though, really, how many Death Eater agents do you think there are?"

"Who knows how many there might be?" Harry laughed sharply and dropped down onto the stool next to the one Hermione was sitting on. "The way my mother tells it, that was how it was during the war – you couldn't trust anyone you met, because they might be working for You-Know-Who."

"That's not very comforting." In fact, Hermione felt a little cold, though she had heard such stories before.

"Good. It wasn't supposed to be." Harry flashed her a dark and rather horrible smile. "That's the main reason why the forces of good bother to keep us Slytherins around, you know – our cynicism and our suspicious minds." He snorted, and she wondered if that had been an attempt at a joke.

"I think Severus has that covered," Draco put in, dryly.

"You may be right." Harry gave the still-preoccupied teacher a quick glance, then shrugged. "Always room for one more, though, isn't there?" He looked directly at Draco then, and his brow furrowed slightly. "So what was old Crouch saying to you? I suppose _he_ must be above suspicion, at least; he was poleaxed by seeing his dead son come back to life. You might say it was all an act – but I know what acting looks like, and that wasn't it."

"Yeah, when he was talking to me it was kind of like his wits were scattered all over." Draco had apparently decided that if Harry could be civil to him then he could respond in kind. "None of it seemed all that important – though he did say that, even though he couldn't help but be disappointed at what his son had become, he was still glad to see that he was alive." He gave a sad little sigh. "I suppose I shouldn't be surprised that he was incoherent."

"It's all just so tragic, somehow." Despite her common sense and rationality, Hermione found that she couldn't help but feel sorry for Crouch – for both of them. She had not been so affected before, but then in her old world she had only heard about most of the events, and had seen very little herself. Her imagination was not good enough to show her the poignant tragedy of their twisted little family drama, not without seeing it firsthand. "To think your child is dead, and then find that he's alive but in service to Voldemort? That must... I don't even know how it must feel."

Draco frowned. "Dad always said Barty Crouch was a cold-hearted man who sentenced his own son to a life in hell with no pity whatsoever. His wife begged him to be merciful, right there in front of everyone in the public courts, and he turned his face away from her." He looked over his shoulder at the classroom door, as if he expected to see the man standing there. "I find it kind of hard to square that description with the way he spoke – and acted – today."

"Regret." Harry's voice was dark, and when Hermione looked at him she saw pain in his eyes. "He regrets what he did to his son, I think."

"What's this?" The whispered conference had broken up, and now Sirius was insinuating himself into their conversation, something that Harry could hardly be expected to welcome – and, indeed, he did seem rather uncomfortable.

"We were talking about Crouch." Hermione had never heard Harry sound quite so unlike himself. The cold clipped voice was more than a little chilling. "About whether he regrets the way he treated his son."

Sirius winced; he was clearly aware that this was not only about the Crouches. "I suppose he might do." His eyes settled on Harry, and there was a sadness and yearning there that Hermione could only imagine her friend had never seen – or perhaps simply never identified – else he would not have considered himself unwanted. "It comes with age, the ability to look back and realise that you were wrong, that your ignorance or stubbornness hurt people."

As Sirius spoke these last words, Hermione caught sight of the Headmaster's face, and was struck by the depth of emotion reflected there. It occurred to her, as it never had before, that Professor Dumbledore was an old man who had lived a very long time, and must surely have more to regret than most. That he wasn't infallible she had already known, even before the exposure of Barty Crouch's masquerade, but just then it was as if every mistake he had ever made was written on his face. It was unnerving, almost terrifying.

"Sirius speaks the truth," he said, the gravity in his voice not quite obscuring the traces of sorrow that lurked beneath. The Headmaster looked at each of them in turn, then spoke to Professor Snape. "It seems that the time has come to call the old crowd together. I can count on you to make the arrangements, I trust, Severus?"

The teacher gave a thin smile. "Naturally. Is Fudge sufficiently secure in his power for us to meet at Hogwarts, do you think?"

"That is an interesting question." Professor Dumbledore frowned slightly and took almost a minute to ponder the issue before giving an answer. "Perhaps your point has merit, Severus; it might be better to avoid the appearance of building a separate power base. Sirius, might we trouble you for the use of a room in your townhouse?"

Sirius laughed. "I have so many rooms. Which would you like? I could have Kreacher fit up the second drawing room – you would be in no one's way, you know, in that part of the house." From the way Snape, Dumbledore and even Draco reacted to this, Hermione could only suppose that it was a private joke, one that she and Harry found equally bewildering. In a more serious voice, Sirius added: "I mean, of course the old crowd can use one of the many rooms in the house. I'll see if I can sound out any new prospects at the Ministry – if you approve, that is."

"New allies are always welcome. Perhaps young Kingsley..." Professor Dumbledore tipped his head to the side, considering the matter. "But I shall trust your judgement." The Headmaster turned to look at Harry, Draco and Hermione, as if he had only just realised they were all still there. "Perhaps the three of you should return to your dormitories now that the situation here has been resolved."

"It hasn't really, though. Has it, sir?" This at least was a Harry she recognised; the one who had lost his temper on being told that he was too young to know what the Order of the Phoenix was doing. Hermione wondered if history was about to repeat itself. "It sounds like you've got a lot more work to do before you can _resolve the situation_."

Professor Dumbledore looked a little surprised by Harry's anger. He didn't seem affronted, though, and responded kindly enough. "Much remains to do, that is true – but it is all well in hand, and not something that any of you need worry over."

Hermione could see from the expression on Professor Snape's face that he did not agree at all. It must have felt very unusual for him to find himself in accord with Harry Potter, in this world or any other. "If Lord Voldemort's plan involves the Triwizard Tournament, I think that should be of some concern to the Champions, Albus."

"Perhaps that is so." But there was uncertainty and reluctance in the Headmaster's eyes. "And yet, ever since... well, I do not like to use children to fight my battles. It was a mistake to do so, one I do not wish to make ever again."

Harry folded his arms across his chest. "If the – if You-Know-Who really does want to abduct me to use my blood for his resurrection, I'm going to end up fighting him anyway. This noble 'spare the children' sh– um, rubbish is just _pointless_." He paused. "Sir."

Hermione added her voice to his. "Kingsley said that he didn't think there was any point in sheltering us from the truth, not now we'd disrupted Voldemort's plans. He'll be after us anyway." She shrugged. "And besides, I'm legally an adult. Whether or not I've finished school."

Draco looked up from his contemplation of the stone floor. "I don't mean to be left out simply because I was born three months too late, either." He looked at his father, and his lips curled into a tiny smile. "I think... all we want is to _know_, really. You don't have to use us to fight your battles. Just don't keep us in the dark. Not now."

Professor Dumbledore looked at the other adults in the room, perhaps wanting their support – but he found none. "We both know that when war comes, it won't spare _the children_, whether you use them to fight or not." There was a dark fire in Sirius' eyes, and his mouth was set in a grim line. The Headmaster let out a soft sigh and turned his head away; whatever the meaning of those words, they had not left him unaffected.

When he had composed himself enough to look at Professor Snape, the Defence teacher simply inclined his head slightly and said nothing. His opinion was clear enough without words, and at length Professor Dumbledore cleared his throat and said, "Perhaps I should repay Miss Granger's kindness by telling you all a story." He looked around the room. "Though I think we should adjourn this meeting to my office. It is a more comfortable place to have a long talk."

Hardly able to believe that their show of defiance had worked in their favour, Hermione was in something of daze when she stood to follow the Headmaster out of the room. Not only was she invited to his office – a privilege afforded to only a few students – but she was going to hear some of the secrets of Lord Voldemort. Common sense told her that none of it was likely to be pretty, but to be party to such closely guarded information would still be thrilling. She could hardly wait to hear the Headmaster's story.

* * *

Some time later, three visibly shaken sixth year students stumbled out of the secret griffin staircase and looked at one another. Draco recovered first, and turned to Hermione to ask: "That room – could you find it again, do you think?"

"Room? What room?" Hermione frowned, but after a brief moment of confusion her face cleared. "Oh, right. _That_ Room." She nodded. "Of course I could. It's always in the same place. You just have to know the trick."

"On the seventh floor, wasn't it?"

"Yeah, along the corridor with the tapestry of the dancing trolls."

At this point, Harry broke in with: "What are you talking about? What room do we need to find?"

They had begun to walk through the corridors, heading towards the nearest flight of stairs, and while Draco didn't look exactly happy about Harry tagging along, he didn't say anything to object. In the same very reasonable and civil manner as he'd been using all afternoon, he explained. "There's a secret room where we can talk about this, and no one will be able to overhear us." He grimaced. "I learned about it the same day as Hermione told me about her... well, her secret."

"Ah." Harry nodded. Then, darting a shrewd glance at Hermione, he asked, "And you think I want to discuss things with a couple of Gryffindors? I could want to make my own plans."

"You don't." Hermione rolled her eyes at him. "You want to be our cynical voice of reason." She nodded at a tapestry on the wall. "Pull that out of the way; there's a shortcut behind it. Thanks." Once in the not-very-secret passage, she continued, "You don't fool me, Harry. I know you want to be involved."

His laugh echoed strangely in the narrow passage. "Alright, then, I admit it. I want to know what you plan to do, at least."

Emerging into a little-used corridor on the other side of the castle, Hermione looked back at him and smirked. "And help us plan, because God knows you can't trust a couple of Gryffindors to do it right?"

Harry smirked. "You took the words right out of my mouth."

Once they reached the blank stretch of wall behind which the Room of Requirement could be found, Hermione held up a hand for them to stop, and then began to pace. _I need a room where we can talk and make plans._ Back and forth, three times up and down the corridor – until a door appeared in the wall. "Here it is." She gripped the door handle. "Let's see what the magic of Hogwarts has provided for us."

It was not all that dissimilar to the room the DA had used to practice. Shelves of practical Defence texts, an open duelling space – she didn't like to think of why the Room thought _that_ was necessary – and some comfortable seating. It had picked up on her mood, in that the walls and furnishings were rather dark and sombre in colour. She was grateful for that; anything too bright would have felt wrong. The Gryffindor common room would definitely have been far too much for her to take.

"Very tasteful," Harry said, looking around the room and frowning at a rather macabre tapestry. "I can hardly believe this came from your mind, Hermione; it's... pretty unnerving, honestly." He continued to inspect the woven images, frowning slightly. "You know, I think this is about... the things Dumbledore told us about just now."

Hermione sat down on a charcoal coloured armchair and followed his gaze to the pattern in question. It was... well, maybe he was right. But why would Hogwarts even have something like that? "Horcruxes." The word echoed oddly in the tense silence of the Room, sounding exactly as unfathomably horrific as the artefacts it represented. "I have no idea what making one would look like. Even the Headmaster had no idea how to actually do it."

"Why would he?" Draco sat on the arm of her chair rather than claim one of his own. "It's Dark magic. Really Dark magic."

"It's disgusting," Harry said, with feeling. He turned away from the disturbing tapestry and dropped into one of the other chairs. The situation and the truths they had been told were so serious that no one even thought to make any jokes or comments about the magical proclivities of Slytherins. House loyalties didn't matter in the face of an evil man's sordid and disturbing attempts to become immortal. And, what was worse, the unquestionable fact that he had succeeded.

"This is... I mean, I suppose we should've wondered why Voldemort was able to come back at all." Hermione did not like feeling as if she had overlooked something. "But then, since a Killing Curse had never been reflected before, no one really knew what the effect of being hit by such a thing _ought_ to be." She sighed. "It's so difficult to know what we should do."

"You know they won't let us _do_ anything." Harry, having now heard the Prophecy – the exact details of which had been news even to Hermione – had torn straight through denial and into anger. "Even if we come up with a plan, we're _children_, apparently, so we won't be allowed to help. And that's just so much bullshit." For a moment he seemed to snarl, teeth bared like a territorial wolf. "If you're going to set store in Divination, you ought to follow through on it. I don't _feel_ like a great hero of prophecy, I'll admit that, but if You-Know-Who believes it, nothing else really matters, does it?"

"That's just it." Hermione didn't like breaking rules or defying authority, but sometimes it couldn't be helped. "I told Professor Dumbledore how the Triwizard Tournament was used to trap Harry in my world, so he must know that we could be in danger. Unless he really thinks that capturing Crouch is the end of the danger to Hogwarts." She could hear the doubt in her own voice.

"I think we all know that this isn't over yet." Draco pulled a small book out of his pocket. Harry and Hermione both stared at it. "Dad gave me this. He said it was his brother's diary, and that reading it might tell us more about... well, I assume about the Horcrux. And about what he and the others will be doing."

"You think that he – Sirius – wants to let us help?" Harry sounded sceptical, and Hermione could hardly blame him. An adult who treated teenagers as if they were actual _people_ was something of a rarity. "And it sounds like he's willing to go behind the Headmaster's back for our sake." He grinned, albeit briefly. "Hardly responsible parenting, but I can't say that I care all that much."

Stiffly, Draco said, "I think giving your child tools and information that he can use to defend himself is very responsible." He sighed. "Though I suppose Dumbledore probably wouldn't agree. And a lot of people would say he was right." Shaking his head, Draco opened the book – the diary – and ran his finger over the very precisely inked words on the inner cover. "_Diary of Regulus Arcturus Black_." He snorted and looked up. "What with the handwriting and this pompous title page, I bet he was about as much fun at a party as Percy Weasley."

Hermione tried to remember what Sirius had told them about his brother when they'd come across the Black family tapestry. A Death Eater who'd got too far in, tried to back out, and been killed for it – that had been the story, delivered with a dismissive contempt and lack of compassion that had rather soured her opinion of Sirius. Still, there was no guarantee that events had unfolded in the same way here, and _this_ Sirius evidently thought well enough of his brother to have kept his diary and hand it over to his son.

"Who was Regulus Black?" She looked at the neat, somehow pedantic-looking script in the diary. "Aside from Sirius' brother, I mean."

"He was a Death Eater who worked as a secret agent for Dumbledore." Draco frowned. "Or, at least, that's what Dad always told me. He died the year I was born, but I don't know how it happened. I suppose he must have been caught." He ran his finger along the spine of the little book. "If he was a spy, this diary might have some of the secrets he stole."

"Got to be worth a look, then." Harry's words echoed Hermione's thoughts, though perhaps not in _exactly_ the way she would have chosen. "Start near the end; if he was killed because he knew something, then the last few pages might tell us what it was."

"Yeah, that makes sense." Draco nodded and began to flick through the ink-covered pages, occasionally pausing when something caught his eye. The handwriting stopped abruptly midway down a particular page, and everything further on was blank – Draco stopped and went back a little way, scanning the words carefully. "Okay, I found the last entry." This announcement made both Harry and Hermione sit up a little straighter in their chairs and watch him intently.

"It's... I don't really know what to make of it." His brow creased as he read the words, and there was uncertainty in his voice. Hermione caught a glimpse of the page and registered that the handwriting was far less neat here – really, it was practically a scrawl. "_Something_ happened to scare him out of most of his wits, but I've no idea what. He... I can't read it very well. A lake? I think there's something about a lake that's underground. And something about a _soul_ – oh!" Draco looked up, eyes glowing with excitement. "He found out about the Horcrux. He doesn't use the word, but that's what he means."

"Wait, so Regulus Black knew about the Horcrux?" Harry leaned forward eagerly. "Do you think that's why he was killed?"

"No. It was more than that." Draco tapped his finger against the page. "I think he _stole_ it. He found out about the Horcrux, and then he stole it with the intention of destroying it. I don't know if he ever did."

"Here, let me take a look." Hermione reached for the diary, and after a moment's hesitation Draco handed it across. She immediately bent over it, her eyes picking out the words among the careless lines and inkblots with ease. Regulus Black at his most disordered and haphazard had nothing on the handwritten texts of eleventh century alchemical researchers. It was all a matter of practice, deciphering such things, and this diary posed no real challenge to her.

"A locket," she said, after puzzling out what the word had to be. "He took the locket – after drinking something, he doesn't say what – and gave it to Kreacher." She smoothed out the pages on her knee and leaned even closer, alive with the thrill of discovery. Reading aloud now, she went on: "_I have no one else, so it has been... entrusted to Kreacher.__ He... I told him to destroy it, but I do not know if he can.__ This thing, the soul... repository, it is __evil.__ I__ can only hope that Kreacher will accept help from S–_" She looked up. "He didn't finish the word, but I'm sure he meant Sirius."

"That must be it." Draco nodded, then made a startled exclamation. "Oh! I wonder if this is what Dad did to make Kreacher listen to him. He always said that it was a difficult task. Maybe he meant it literally." He frowned. "Though that would mean that he knew about the Horcrux all this time and never said anything to anyone about it."

"That depends on when Sirius inherited the house – and Kreacher," Hermione reminded him. "He'd been disowned; he could hardly go back there before his mother died."

"But still... the Horcrux must have been destroyed years ago."

"Yes, I suppose it must have been." For some reason, Hermione didn't find the thought very comforting. There was something else, something she hadn't seen yet. Something she needed to figure out. "And what's more, Professors Dumbledore and Snape must have known all about it. They all knew what a Horcrux was, and that Voldemort_ had_ one, even though the Headmaster was the one who said the words. You could see that, couldn't you? They all knew. It wasn't news to any of them. Only to us."

"I noticed that," Harry put in. "Of course, I wondered how they'd known... but this makes sense. They knew about the _thing_ because they'd helped to destroy it." He seemed to have an aversion to the word _Horcrux_ – unsurprising, perhaps, given what it represented, but still starkly different from her own Harry. "What I don't get is, well, if it was destroyed, and they all know it was destroyed, why did they tell us about it? Why are they still worried?"

"And if it was destroyed, would it still be possible for Voldemort to return from death?" Draco looked troubled and confused, but his question solidified the thoughts whirling around in Hermione's head.

"I don't know, but..." She paused. The enormity of her realisation seemed to require a moment of silence. "What if he didn't only make one Horcrux? What if there are still more out there to find? I mean, Professor Dumbledore didn't say _a_ Horcrux, did he? He said _Horcruxes. _Plural. There must be more of them."

"Shit." Harry's mouth hung open. "_One _of these things would be bad enough. And now we think he made _more_? How many? How would we ever know for sure?"

Hermione had been asking herself the same questions. "If only this diary were enchanted like Tom Riddle's," she said, quietly, only half-aware that she was speaking aloud. "There's so much I wish I could ask Regulus Black. I want to know how much he knew, what he suspected, if he had any idea how many Horcruxes Voldemort might have made. Or even what they were."

Harry and Draco looked at one another with matching expressions of alarm and confusion. "What diary was this?" It seemed that, unusual as it might be, in this instance Draco spoke for both of them.

"There was a diary that contained the memory of a sixteen-year-old boy called Tom Riddle." It was disturbing to think of it, but that enchantment would be helpful now. "If anyone wrote in the pages, the ink would vanish, and the... I don't know, the _ghost _inside would respond to them using the knowledge that Tom Riddle had at the time of its creation." She laughed, dryly. "Of course, since he was _Voldemort_, you can imagine that it mostly told a lot of lies."

"A diary with a _ghost_ inside?" Harry frowned. "I've never heard of anything like that. You... I don't think there _are_ any spells that can do that."

"Apparently Mrs. Weasley told her children not to trust anything if they 'couldn't see where it kept its brain', so I assumed that this sort of thing happened from time to time." Hermione pulled a face, remembering. "I mean, I couldn't ever find anything about it in the Hogwarts Library, but then, I didn't have a clue what sort of book I ought to look in _anyway_, and..."

"Hermione." Draco was sitting up very straight, now, and there was a sharp look in his eyes. "My Dad's an Unspeakable at the Ministry. He's seen all sorts of odd enchantments and harmful curses, and I don't think he's ever even _mentioned_ the idea of a book that can think for itself. A book with a _ghost_ in? It just sounds ridiculous." He winced and added, hastily: "Not that I don't believe you, of course, but... I have no idea what that would even be."

"I do." Harry was staring at his hands, his mouth set in a grim line. "Think about it. A _ghost_ is just a _soul_, isn't it?"

Hermione put her hands over her mouth. "I don't believe it," she said, in a very muffled voice. "The _diary_ was a Horcrux?" Dropping her hands and wringing them together, she murmured, "I mean, Harry never told me, or anyone except maybe Professor Dumbledore, what happened in the Chamber of Secrets. Could Voldemort have used him – or Ginny – to come back?" She recalled that chilling expression '_pouring her soul into the diary_'. (Where had she heard that? Who had told her? She couldn't remember.) But had it been Ginny's soul, really? The alternative was somehow worse.

"We should tell the Headmaster about this," Draco said, but just as he jumped to his feet, Harry spoke across him.

"Should we, really?" There was a dark cast to Harry's countenance, not anger but something close... resentment, perhaps. "He didn't want to tell _us_ anything. Maybe we should work out something about this diary first, maybe even find it, and only _then_ let him know what we've been up to." Seeing Hermione's frown, he snorted. "Obviously we don't _write_ in it or anything stupid like that. I just think we ought to prove that we're good for something, you know? That we can help, and that we're not stupid _children_ anymore."

"That sounds like something a stupid child _would_ say." Draco raised an eyebrow. Then, before Harry could do more than bristle at the implication, he added: "I didn't say I disagreed."

Harry turned to look at Hermione. "No, _she's_ the stickler for the rules. It's her we're going to have to convince. Especially since she's the one who knows all about this diary that we need to find."

She shook her head. "You don't have to convince me of anything," she said, ignoring their almost comical surprise. "I can't think that there'd be anything dangerous about getting hold of the diary as long as we're sensible and don't write in it, like you said. It'd be much better just to... present it to the Headmaster and say that we found what we think is another Horcrux, and then let him deal with it. He must know how, after all, and we don't."

"Well, it'd be _better_ if we could destroy it and then give it to him..." Harry's voice had taken on a wheedling tone.

"But then how would we prove it had ever _been_ a Horcrux?" Hermione pointed out. "Anyone could destroy a diary and claim that it was an artefact of great evil afterwards, couldn't they?" In all honesty, she had no desire to handle anything as terrible as a fragment of Voldemort's soul for any longer than she absolutely had to, and nor did she want Harry or Draco to do so.

"Good point." Draco nodded, then thought to ask: "So, where will we _find_ this diary, then? I mean, it's one thing to know that it _exists_, but..."

"It's alright." Hermione interrupted him, smiling. "I know." Her face fell a little. "But you might not like it."

"Why's that?" He sounded understandably wary.

"Well... if I'm not mistaken, it will involve visiting your family's Manor..."


	26. Secrets In The Shadows

**Author's Notes:** As of yesterday the draft version of Chapter 32 is complete, which means that pending edits _Alternate History_ is a finished work! That means that I can move up the editing process, and hopefully wrap the whole thing up for you before the end of April.

* * *

**26\. Secrets In The Shadows**

From what Draco had said on the matter, no one had lived in Malfoy Manor for well over a decade – but even bearing that in mind Hermione found it hard to imagine anyone making their home there. Even Lucius Malfoy, who had once looked down his nose at her and on another occasion tried to kill her, who was closer to a marble statue than any man had a right to be – even he was too alive to belong in such a place. If any house had ever deserved the title _mausoleum_, this one did. A mausoleum in marble, a house dedicated to dead generations, not meant for the living at all.

"Nice place you've got here." Harry's voice was very dry indeed.

Draco snorted. "Isn't it just?" They were getting along better now, though they still claimed not to be friends. Hermione believed them; she had a feeling it would take a miracle to make them any more than uneasy acquaintances. "I especially like how it's still ever so slightly too cold, even with the state-of-the-art heating charms." He shook his head. "And my family has lived here for generations. I think they must all have been mad."

"A lot of purebloods are," Harry volunteered, his voice strangely devoid of inflection.

"I guess so." Draco smiled wryly. "Dad gave me the abridged version of the Black family history." He shivered. "Almost all of it was pretty unpleasant. It kind of left me at a loss for why anyone would ever support the idea of pureblood superiority."

Harry shrugged. "Don't look at me; I'm a half-blood."

_A half-blood who hates the idea of Muggles having anything to do with 'our' world, _Hermione thought, but did not say. Instead, she pasted on a smile. "You're preaching to the choir with that one, Draco." Then, to cut off any further exploration of the topic, she hurriedly added, "So if the Diary was given to your – um, to Lucius, where do you think he'd hide it? He used it as a weapon in my world, so he'd probably want it close to hand, don't you think?"

Draco looked around, clearly no more comfortable – or less confused – than she was. "I'd say his study or perhaps a private library. Unless there's a secret stash of Dark Arts stuff somewhere? But... I don't really know how we'd even start to look for something like that."

"Then let's start with looking at the rooms we can find," Hermione said, brightly, trying not to think about what a large job it might turn out to be. She doubted that a Horcrux, even one primed for use as a weapon, would be susceptible to a Summoning Charm. That would be far too easy. "Remember, we might not get another chance to look for this thing; we'd best make the most of the time we've got."

"Right." Draco pressed his lips together and nodded. They hadn't exactly lied to get permission to go on this trip to the Manor, but they hadn't exactly told the truth, either. They needed to find that Horcrux today; if they didn't, they'd have to let someone else – like Professor Dumbledore – take over the search.

"You know where your father's study was, then?" Harry asked, apparently bent on proving that he had no tact.

Draco's eyes narrowed slightly, but he only shrugged. "I haven't ever lived here. I know which room the estate manager uses, but I doubt it's the same one. The Master's offices would have been saved for me – not that I ever intend to use them. I mean, I'd have to live here!"

"Surrounded by all this pureblood opulence? Who wouldn't want that?" From the tone of Harry's voice, he was mocking someone, but Hermione wasn't at all sure that it was Draco.

"I can assure you that my own house is quite _opulent_ enough for most people's taste." Draco pulled a face as he looked at the ornately carved main stairway. "This is just way too much. I honestly don't have any idea what to do with it." He sighed and began to climb the stairs. Harry and Hermione exchanged a look and then followed him.

"It's yours, though, isn't it?" she asked, drawing level with him as they reached the first floor landing.

He pursed his lips and shook his head. "Technically not. My... well, my natural father is still alive, so it's legally his property – but since he's serving a life sentence, the right to profit from the estate is mine. I could live here, if I wanted to, and I _do_ draw a quarterly income from the lands – or Sirius does on my behalf – but I don't have the right to sell it. Which is kind of a shame, because I like the idea of cleaning it out, stripping the enchantments entirely, and selling it all to a rich Muggle."

Hermione laughed, but Harry frowned. "But... would you really do that? It's your birthright, hundreds of years of your family's history. Would you really want to see that in the hands of Muggles?"

Draco stopped walking and turned to face the Slytherin. "I don't _care_," he said, simply. "The Malfoy family, the Malfoy treasures, the Malfoy _name_, even – none of that means anything to me at all. If I were legally allowed to change my name then I'd do it in a heartbeat. I don't _need_ another family legacy of murder and treachery and evil magic. In every way that matters I'm a Black, and our history is quite dark enough already. If you'll forgive the pun."

Harry's eyes had gone very wide. He swallowed once, heavily, and nodded. "I suppose that makes sense," he said, eventually. He looked around the landing, which was no more cheerful or welcoming than the main hallway. "So, do you know where this study is, then?"

"The Master's study would be in the family apartments," Draco began to say, but then interrupted himself. "God, I'm an idiot."

"Not saying I disagree, but why specifically?"

"Shut up, Potter." Draco spoke absently, and his eyes weren't quite focused. Then: "Dobby!"

With a crack, the Malfoy house-elf appeared before them.

"Master!" It was hard to tell with such a high-pitched voice, but Dobby sounded almost... shocked. He was definitely at least surprised – and really, why shouldn't he be? "You is here? In the house of Old Master?" The house-elf's expression was difficult to decipher, but it was not an entirely happy one. "Why is you here?" He pulled at his ears. "How can Dobby be serving Master?"

"We're looking for something that your Old Master might have hidden here." Draco knelt down next to Dobby so that he could look on the level into the saucer-wide eyes. "It might be dangerous to everyone, including me, if we don't manage to find it. Do you have any idea where he kept his secret things?"

In an undertone, Harry explained, "He has control but not ownership of the estate, and so of the elf. If he didn't play up the personal danger angle, it might refuse to betray its old Master's confidences." He smiled and nodded approvingly. "Malfoy wouldn't be too much of a disgrace to Slytherin after all."

Hermione was torn between gratitude for the explanation and disgust for Harry's utter indifference to the house-elf who in another world had been his friend. It stood in stark contrast to Draco's deliberate efforts to relate to Dobby, to approach him from as close to a position of equality as possible – a move that managed to endear him to her even more. In the end, as she was trying to follow the thread of Dobby's excitable chatter, she made a small non-committal noise and didn't reply at all.

"...but Dobby can be showing Master to the main study and the private library, yes." The elf looked at his hands as if he might be thinking of ironing them. Hermione felt slightly sick. Dobby had been abused here for who knew how many years. He probably would've given Draco every last one of his Old Master's secrets just on the strength of the memories of that past. It was good that Draco didn't treat Dobby that way, but he could've done if he'd wanted to, and no one would've been able to do a goddamn thing about it. The faded decadence of the house seemed... well, _disgusting_ to her now.

"That's very good of you, Dobby." There was compassion in Draco's voice, and she loved him for it. "We're all very grateful. Once we get into those rooms it should be easy, I'm sure." Hermione wasn't in the least sure about that, herself, but she noticed that Dobby seemed to brighten at the words and so kept her silence.

They followed the little elf through the halls of the Malfoy ancestral home, and within only a few minutes they were ushered into the family offices. "Here is where Old Master was doing all his writing," Dobby piped, waving at an ornately carved desk of some dark wood, embossed with gold leaf detailing. He then swept a deep bow before his current master and stood trembling slightly as he waited for Draco's next command.

"Thank you, Dobby." There was a pained light in his eyes as he looked at the poor elf. "You may go back to Grimmauld Place now; I will only call you back here if I really need your help with something."

The tension in Dobby's body faded slightly. "Master is very good," he said, with feeling. There was another crack, and he was gone.

Draco groaned and sagged against the ridiculous desk. "I forgot that Lucius Malfoy was such a bastard. Poor little guy."

"Calling him probably saved us a load of time, though." Harry's pragmatism felt awkward and out of place, somehow, but he wasn't _wrong_. "Remember, we still need to find this diary that might contain part of the Dark Lord's soul."

"Right. Of course." Draco frowned. "I suppose finding our way up here was only the first step. We haven't even started on the actually difficult part yet, have we?"

"Don't talk like that, Malfoy." Harry looked very deliberately serious for a moment. "You're supposed to leave the pessimism and cynicism to me."

They both laughed.

* * *

"This is it." Draco looked around the small book-lined room, his eyes burning into the shelves as though he thought the power of his gaze alone would reveal the hiding place. "I mean, it has to be, doesn't it? Why else even have a secret study, if not to hide the things you don't want the Ministry to find?"

Harry rolled his eyes. "Honestly, if you think that the Ministry didn't find this place, you can't have all that much respect for their abilities." He shook his head. "I imagine this was more for Malfoy patriarchs to hide from their wife and children."

Hermione frowned at this, but said only: "Still, if it was Lucius Malfoy's most private study, perhaps this is where he kept that diary. I don't remember it looking particularly special, so there's no reason anyone would have taken notice of it."

"Good point." Harry looked at the desk in the secret room, upon which rested two small piles of books and rolled scrolls, with a single sheet of parchment laid flat in between. "Looks like he was writing a letter." He moved around behind the desk chair so that he could read it more easily, showing absolutely no concern for the writer's privacy. Of course, Lucius Malfoy was a convicted criminal and technically had no right to privacy or anything else, but it still felt wrong. "Looks like it was to... Ludo Bagman? Odd."

"Not really." Draco spoke without looking up from the appointments book he was reading, the one labelled _1981_. "Bagman was hauled before the Wizengamot on charges of passing information, but it turned out that he was just an idiot who was taken in by one of the Death Eater spies in the Ministry. And until he was caught everyone thought that Lucius Malfoy was a fine upstanding citizen, and a generous political donor, besides."

"Well, he definitely was generous," Harry remarked, setting the letter aside. "Wait, what the hell's this?"

Hermione held out a hand, and Harry passed her the mysterious parchment. "It looks like a drawing of a key, done in some sort of dark red ink." She frowned. "But why on earth would anyone... oh! It's not ink. It's blood. It has to be."

"Of course." Harry gave a dry chuckle. "That's purebloods for you." He smirked at Draco. "No offence meant."

Draco snorted. "None taken. So, what, you think this is some sort of blood magic?"

"Of course it is." Harry leaned over and tapped the parchment. "Why else would anyone bother to draw a _key _in _blood_?"

"Right." Draco swallowed audibly. "So you think I should just cut myself and drip the blood on the key? Or is there more to it than that?"

Hermione definitely felt sick now. "Well, it might be locked to Lucius himself, in which case it wouldn't work at all, regardless of which of us tried it. Or it might just require a tribute of blood, so any of us would do. Or else it might be bound to the Malfoy bloodline in some way..."

"...and however much you consider yourself a Black, you're still of Malfoy blood," Harry finished, putting things a little more baldly than Hermione would've done. Not that _that_ was a surprise. "Although we _are_ assuming that the blood he used for the key was his own."

"It's simple enough to test," Draco said, his voice firm and his jaw set in a determined line. "And it's the best idea we've got right now, so I don't see the harm in just trying it." He looked at Hermione, the hard look in his eyes softening a little. "You know some healing spells, don't you?"

"I know a couple, yes." Hermione stared at the parchment and the hideous drawn key. She knew that there was little else they could do if they wanted to find the diary, but that didn't make it easier to accept. "Be careful, though; if you cut through an artery there isn't much I can really do." Horrible not-quite-jokes didn't make it better either.

"Don't worry; we'll only need a little bit of blood for this, anyway." Draco put the key parchment down and patted his pockets. "Damn. Have either of you got a pin? I don't want to risk using a Cutting Curse."

"You shouldn't even be considering that," Hermione said, sharply, her mind suddenly full of images of wide gaping wounds and far too much blood, Draco pale and lifeless on the floor in a fast-spreading pool of crimson. "I've got a quill-sharpening knife somewhere; you could just do a... a quick stab with that." She grimaced, but reached into her pocket and pulled out the knife.

"Are your robes made of mokeskin or something?" Harry whistled. "You have everything in those pockets."

"Not quite everything." Hermione would have laughed if everything hadn't been so serious. "Just all my writing equipment." Then, as Draco took the knife from her hands, she added, "I mean it, Draco. _Be careful_."

"Right." He didn't look much happier about it than she felt. Even Harry seemed more nervous than excited. "Here goes." Draco looked at the knife blade and tested its sharpness against his fingers. Then, with a single swift movement and a decidedly grim expression, he sliced it cleanly through his own flesh. Blood welled up in the wound, and he reached for the key parchment, which Hermione snatched up and pushed towards him. A few bright red drops were pressed out onto the key, and all three of them watched and waited with bated breath.

"Oh!" Hermione could hardly believe her eyes, even though she'd hoped. "It's changing!"

And so it was. The lines drawn on the parchment reacted to the blood almost immediately, rippling and bending, reforming into letters and words in the same rusty red colour. By far the worst part about it was that the drops of Draco's blood had disappeared; the enchanted parchment had absorbed them. Hermione shivered. Draco pored over the words, seeming not to notice this, or that he was still bleeding. She wanted to heal his cut, but it wasn't particularly serious, and she had no idea how much blood was actually necessary for the magic, so she held off.

"It's a letter." There was very little enthusiasm in Draco's voice as he began to read. "My dear son Draco" – he grimaced at this, but made no comment – "if you have been forced to rely upon this key, then I must not be there to show you the private study or your birthright. And yet you have managed to find the way alone. How very promising you must be, and how terrible that I shall never see it." Draco's lower lip quivered slightly, though they all knew how little sympathy Lucius Malfoy deserved. He swallowed, then looked up at Harry and Hermione. "I'm sorry. I don't want to be affected by this, but..."

"That's why it's called _tragedy_." For once Harry at least seemed to be trying not to be offensive.

"Yeah, I suppose." Draco blinked a couple of times and returned to his reading of the macabre words. "It's basically just instructions for how to find all of the family secret rooms, passages and... other things. One of them is a cache of magic that 'the Ministry in their foolishness have seen fit to ban'. Dark artefacts, it has to be!" There was excitement in Draco's voice, cutting through and dispelling the shadow of grief.

"You think the diary could be hidden among them?" Harry sounded far more eager than his claims of cynicism might lead one to expect.

Hermione did not feel quite so triumphant about the discovery; in fact, she was conscious of a terrible sinking feeling in her stomach. She debated whether she really ought to say anything about it, especially since she had no real solution to offer, but her mother had always taught her that it was better to have all the facts in the open. "I'm not sure it will be." The boys both frowned at her, and she flushed but bravely continued, "I mean, it's a small diary. The easiest thing to do would be just shove it between the pages of a book, and then put that book back on one of the shelves. And, well, it's not the Hogwarts Library, but..."

"But there _are_ a lot of books." Draco sighed and looked back down at his parchment. "The diary is very important, though, entrusted to him by Lord Voldemort himself. Lucius might not have wanted to risk it being lost. Or stolen. Or damaged."

"I know." Hermione nodded, though a pained look crept over her face. "Sorry; I still think we should look into this cache. You're right; the diary might be there. It was just a thought I had, of what would be the best place to hide a book."

"That sounds like some sort of riddle," Harry observed, half-smiling. "Explains how you won the Second Task so easily." Hermione stared at him in disbelief. Nothing about that ordeal had been _easy_, whatever he might think. He noticed her expression and leaned across to pat her arm. "Cheer up; that was meant to be a compliment."

Hermione forced a smile. "Yes, I know. Sorry." Turning hurriedly back to Draco, she tapped the key parchment a few times. "Do we want to go and see what's in the secret stash of evil magic, or have I completely ruined it for you now?"

He snorted and shook his head. "It's fine. Even if it's not there, we'll be helping, right? Let's open the secret cache. It's under the floor in the main drawing room, would you believe?" His lips drew up in a faint smirk, while Hermione thought she remembered Harry and Ron talking about a similar stash in the Malfoy Manor, once, a long time ago. She wasn't sure quite how they'd come by the information... wait, it must have been when they'd used Polyjuice Potion to spy on Malfoy during their second year! Hermione flushed, remembering exactly how embarrassing that incident had been for her. Though at least it had taught her to be more careful about the origin of her potion ingredients.

The boys were looking at her curiously, perhaps wondering what had affected her so, but all she said was, "Hidden in plain sight? You'd think the Ministry would have found it at some point."

"They might have done." Despite his own attitude to the Dark Arts, Draco seemed rather proud of his family's ingenuity. "You'll see when we get there." He headed for the door, parchment still in hand, and Harry and Hermione followed him.

"Wait, Draco." She wasn't sure how they'd overlooked it before. "Don't you want me to heal that cut?"

He looked back at her and shrugged. "I'll probably need the blood again soon enough, if I'm reading this right." A faintly disgusted look passed across his face. "I know it's not very pleasant, but I suppose that's old pureblood families for you." They moved out onto the landing and then down the stairs. "Do you feel uncomfortable here?"

Hermione wasn't offended by the question; he didn't look all that comfortable himself. "Yeah, a bit." She looked up at the high ceiling with its gold leaf ornamentation. "You were right; it's a mausoleum. Like the carved and decorated tombs of the Ancient Egyptian Pharaohs." Who she now knew had been wizards; no wonder the common people had thought them to be gods.

"That's a good comparison." Draco smiled and reached out for her with his uninjured hand, stroking gently down her lower arm before wrapping his fingers around hers and squeezing. She pressed back almost automatically, unsure if he was trying to offer comfort or draw it, though either way it was not an unwelcome gesture. "At least I didn't have to let a Curse Breaker look the place over before we could go in." He laughed softly. "This was a favourite meeting place for pureblood high society back in my parents' day, or so I've been told. And, well, they all seem to hate one another for the most part, so setting up curses against enemies would've been actively harmful to the Malfoy cause."

"Pureblood society doesn't make any sense," Harry volunteered, with a faint trace of smugness in his voice.

"It really doesn't. That's why Dad and I stay as far away from it as possible." Draco snorted and threw open the door to the drawing room. "Okay, the secret cache is supposed to be in here." He looked around. "Help me move the rug out of the way; I bet it's underneath that."

The rug was expensive and heavy, so moving it was not quite as easy as they might have expected it to be. Still, it was rolled up and pushed aside, exposing the bare stone beneath. There was a groove in the floor, which when tapped three times with a wand grew into the outline of a trapdoor. Draco yanked it open and disappeared down a ladder into the room thus revealed, calling out: "Come on down; I think it's safe and there's enough space."

There was only _just_ enough space, in Hermione's opinion. The secret room was full of artefacts whose uses she could only guess – not that she wanted to – but Draco wasn't looking at any of them. "Do you think the diary is in here?"

"Here? No." He looked at the parchment again and then put it down on an already overloaded table. Turning, he fixed his eyes on one of the walls – or, more accurately, the Malfoy crest that had been engraved on the wall. "See, this is what the blood is for." And he pressed his left hand, which was still bleeding slightly, against the crest. There was a rumbling sound, and a whole section of the wall moved, sinking backwards to reveal a doorway into yet another secret room. "I think it might be in here."

* * *

It was with a certain amount of triumph that they returned to Hogwarts, the suspect diary carefully wrapped and hidden in one of Hermione's many pockets. After a brief and slightly heated discussion, it was decided that they first take it to Professor Snape's office, and only if he considered it worth the Headmaster's notice would they show it to him. Harry resisted the plan a little at first, perhaps due to the animosity between him and his Head of House, but eventually admitted that he did at least trust the man enough to talk to him.

It was early evening on a Saturday, a time that Professor Snape usually spent either marking essays or giving extra lessons to his favoured students. As luck would have it, he was engaged in the former activity when they arrived with the diary, and seemed happy enough to set his work aside to listen to them. First, though, he shepherded them through into his private rooms – Harry looked around with interest, having never seen them before – and made everyone a cup of tea.

"I take it from your insufferable smugness that your trip to the Malfoy Manor proved fruitful?" He stirred sugar into one of the cups and handed it across to Draco. "Mr. Potter, how do you take your tea?"

Harry looked suspicious, as if any sort of basic courtesy was unexpected, but said only: "White, no sugar, thanks."

Draco waited impatiently for these pleasantries to be dealt with, only too eager to launch into his tale. "It was very fruitful, Severus. We found a secret cache of Dark Arts stuff _inside_ another secret room. And what do you think we found there?"

Professor Snape raised an eyebrow. "Evidently it was something you think will be very useful."

Hermione saw Draco nod at her, and realised that this was her cue. She reached into her inner pocket and pulled out the piece of silk cloth, unwrapping it to show the very plain and unobtrusive cover of the diary. "I know this doesn't look like much, but it's the diary of a boy called Tom Riddle, from the year 1943."

"Tom Riddle?" Professor Snape sat up very straight in his chair when he heard the name. "But he was... wait, did he write in it?"

"He did more than that." Hermione was actually enjoying herself, at least a little. "Here, I'll show you."

"Hermione, you shouldn't." Draco sounded shocked.

"No, we need to test it before we show it to Dumbledore." Harry smirked. "Wouldn't want to waste his time, now, would we?"

"But..."

"Draco, it's alright." Hermione patted his arm, then squeezed it gently. "You're all here to watch me, so if anything odd happens you'll be able to stop it. Besides, I think I'd have to write in the diary for quite a while – and share some of my personal problems, which I'm certainly not going to do – before it would have any power over me."

Professor Snape gave her a piercing look. "Am I to understand, Miss Granger, that what you are about to show us might be dangerous?"

"Not really, sir." And it wasn't, was it? "If I kept writing in it then yes, it would be, but a short demonstration should be safe enough. I think that, as experiments go, I've done more dangerous things in Potions." He hesitated for a moment, then smiled and inclined his head slightly. Taking this as permission to continue, she produced quill and ink from her pocket, dipped the nib of one into the pot of the other, opened the book and began to write. Something that wouldn't be suspicious, that a naive student might do on first finding an apparently blank book.

On the flyleaf, under the name 'Tom Riddle', she wrote her full name: _Hermione Jean Granger. _Everyone leaned forward to see what, if anything, would happen next, and Hermione realised that if nothing did, she would look very foolish.

The words disappeared.

"It... absorbs ink?" Professor Snape sounded puzzled.

Hermione shook her head. "Wait."

Sure enough, the page began to ripple and the ink reappeared, stark against the white paper. It twisted itself into words, different words in a very different handwriting. With the example given immediately above, it would have been obvious who was writing even had the entity not immediately introduced itself.

_Hello, Hermione Jean Granger.__ My__ name is Tom Marvolo Riddle._

She felt as if he was mocking her; the words seemed to hold a condescending tone.

"Tom Marvolo Riddle." Professor Snape was staring at the words in frank disbelief. "Is it really him? Is that Voldemort? How is he doing this, and how did you know that he could?" He stopped talking and took a breath. "I'm sorry. Carry on with your demonstration, Miss Granger. I am sure it will make sense in time."

She smiled grimly and feigned ignorance. _Who are you?__ Are__ you the book?_

The reply came quickly. Obviously Riddle recognised a curious soul when he came across one. _You could say that I am in the book._

_I've never heard of anything like that._

The next reply was definitely mocking. _And of course you know everything, don't you, Hermione Jean Granger?_

That... well, it was surprising to find that those words could still hurt her, after all this time. Still, this was a demonstration, wasn't it? It wasn't _about_ her or her ego, so she tried to respond as mildly as she could. _I don't know everything, but I know a lot about books.__ And__ I've never heard of anything like you._

If nothing else, that ought to boost his ego, she thought. And it certainly seemed to; his next response was arrogance itself. _I'm not sure there is anything else like me.__ I__ am a memory preserved in a book, almost like a Pensieve – but with more functions.__ You__ know what a Pensieve is, I assume?_

_Of course I do. _Not that she'd ever used one. _So you could... show me things that happened in 1943?_

_Things that I saw, yes._

_That's very interesting.__ Do__ you know how you were made?__ The__ idea of a memory in a book intrigues me._

The words came very quickly this time, and Hermione could almost swear the memory of Riddle was laughing at her. _I don't think you could do it, nor would you want to.__ This__ diary contains a piece of me, of who I was at sixteen.__ It__ was a very complex piece of magic, and I think only a genius could do it._

"An evil genius, perhaps." Hermione spoke aloud, shattering the tense silence and startling most of the others. "You saw that? A piece of Riddle is in there. It admits that. You know what that means."

"A Horcrux." Professor Snape eyed the book with obvious loathing. "One with a voice. And you spoke to it. Miss Granger, are you insane? That blighted thing is already trying to tempt you with forbidden knowledge, or taunt you with jabs about your intellect. Who knows where it would end?"

"I know." Hermione shifted uncomfortably. It did sound rather like an insane thing to do, but she hadn't been lying. She really did think that the risk was low. Or low enough, at least. "It wants to use my weakness to possess my body and open the Chamber of Secrets to unleash a Basilisk."

"You knew this." Professor Snape stared at her, then made a sharp frustrated sound and looked away, rubbing his temples. "You knew this and wrote in the diary anyway? That was... I cannot think why you would expose yourself to such evil."

She shrugged. "It needs time to do that. Time I wasn't going to give it."

Professor Snape reached out and took the diary, snapping it shut decisively. "Time that no one is going to give it. Come along, all of you. We are taking this... _thing_ to the Headmaster." He fixed Hermione with a look that made her feel about three inches tall. "And we will discuss your actions later, Miss Granger, I can assure you of that."

He stood and walked to the door of his quarters. "No time like the present. Let's go."


	27. To Ash And Dust

**Author's Notes: **I am slightly nervous about how this chapter will be received, mostly because of the revelation in the last part. It was one of those facts that I only realised was true when I came to write it; originally the chapter (and the story) ended rather differently. The strange thing is that, once it occurred to me, a lot of other things fell into place, and the plot finally made proper sense to me. So, in a way, I suppose it must have been "true" in the story universe all along.

To be honest, that's probably why it's taken me so long to put this up. I'm sorry.

On the plus side, now I've posted this, the rest of the chapters will hopefully follow much more quickly…

* * *

**27\. To Ash And Dust**

The Diary of Tom Riddle was no more.

Tattered and singed, the mundane shell of the former Horcrux lay on Professor Dumbledore's desk next to a tarnished and twisted piece of metal that had once been a locket. It was the one they had read about, the one that Regulus Black had stolen from Voldemort, though he'd known that doing so would mean his death. He'd wanted to destroy it, of course, but hadn't been able to – and so it had fallen to his brother to complete the task, some years later. Now it sat side by side with a second ruined Horcrux, evidence that, however terrible Voldemort was, his evil could and would be undone.

Or that was how Hermione chose to think about it, anyway.

Not everyone was so optimistic. In spite of this progress towards the goal of getting rid of Voldemort for good, Professor Snape did not look very happy. "It's just so hard to know or even guess what else Riddle could have made into a Horcrux." His voice was tinged with despair. "Or even _how many_ of them he might have made." He looked at the Headmaster as if he imagined that the older man had the answers. "Is there an upper limit, do we know?"

"Very few people have made even one of the damn things, so it's hard to say." This came from Sirius, who had been called in to supervise the burning of the Horcrux on behalf of the Ministry. He looked up from his solemn contemplation of the twisted locket, briefly met Professor Snape's eyes, then shrugged and turned his gaze on Dumbledore. "Unless you've read anything enlightening on the subject, Headmaster?"

There was a grim expression in those clear blue eyes, not even a hint of a sparkle or a gleam. "Not really, no. Truly, there is very little written of Horcruxes, even in the most esoteric of works. They have long been considered a forbidden evil, something that only the most depraved heart would attempt. Though, naturally, there are still those who will study or speculate." Professor Dumbledore sighed. "I think Horace could have told us more about Riddle's intentions in that regard, but alas..."

He left the sentence hanging, and a pained silence followed. They were all well aware that Horace Slughorn had yet to wake after his ordeal.

"He must have at least one other." Professor Snape spoke suddenly, startling them all with both the words and the certainty with which he said them. "Voldemort, I mean. To create a Horcrux that is also a weapon, and that may very well be destroyed, suggests a cavalier attitude towards the safety of his soul that he would be unlikely to have with only one backup. Three is a magically powerful number, and there were four Founders of Hogwarts, so I imagine either of those would have appealed to him."

"Seven is the _most_ powerfully magical number," Hermione put in, though the very idea of there being that many Horcruxes was terrifying.

Professor Snape made a scoffing sound, but Professor Dumbledore nodded gravely. "That, Miss Granger, is precisely what I am afraid of. Certainly there are enough tales of magical artefacts passing through the young Riddle's hands and then disappearing." He stared into his teacup as if that might hold the answer. "He worked at Borgin and Burke's for a time. I have always wondered why, given his potential, but lately I have begun to piece together a rather disturbing picture."

"Borgin and Burke's is the shop in Knockturn Alley with all the cursed items, isn't it?" Hermione thought about following the other Draco – _Malfoy _– there, then pretending to be a haughty pureblood herself. It had only been around seven months ago, she realised with a jolt, but it felt far longer than that.

"You know far too many things that I would never expect a nice girl like you to know." Sirius sounded very nearly amused, which was a definite improvement on the flat, dead tone he had used earlier. "I'm starting to think you may be a bad influence on my son."

"Right." She snorted. "But seriously, Tom Riddle worked there? It's a horrible place. I could barely stand it for two minutes."

"That is why I was so surprised when he took a job there," Professor Dumbledore said, sadly. "I knew something was wrong. Always, I knew that Tom Riddle was not all he seemed. His pleasant face was a mask over his evil. I know that type, you see. I know it well. Yet I never quite imagined anything as terrible as what he actually did."

"I don't think anyone could have predicted such horrors as Voldemort inflicted on the world." There was a surprising gentleness to Professor Snape's voice. "And the creation of Horcruxes is hardly standard procedure even for Dark wizards."

"Perhaps not." The Headmaster sounded nothing so much as _tired_. "And yet... ah, but it is too late for that now. We have destroyed two Horcruxes already – and, given my knowledge of Riddle, and some interesting memories of his exploits that I have collected over the years, I may well be able to find the others." He looked at Hermione. "Unless you have more ideas based on events in your other world, Miss Granger?"

"I don't... I had no idea that there _were_ Horcruxes until you told us about them, sir. And it was Harry who realised that the diary might be one when I described it, so that wasn't even my idea." She stopped and thought for a moment, trying to remember every significant magical item she'd ever encountered. None of them really stood out to her as possible _soul repositories_, to use Regulus Black's turn of phrase. "I can't think of anything else that might have been a Horcrux. I'm sorry."

He laughed softly. "That you managed to find one was more than I dared to expect, Miss Granger."

"I might never have thought of it if Sirius hadn't given us his brother's diary," Hermione said, trying to be modest but realising only too late that perhaps Sirius had not wanted the Headmaster - or even Professor Snape - to know about that gift. "Sorry, I shouldn't have..."

"Don't worry about it, Hermione," he said, with a sharp laugh. "I didn't give that to Draco with any intention of it inspiring you to find a Horcrux. All the credit and blame for that little escapade belongs to you."

"Speaking of _blame_, there is the matter of Miss Granger writing in the diary." Professor Snape sounded almost angry, which Hermione didn't understand. Nothing bad had happened. She hadn't been in any real danger, whatever he thought.

Professor Dumbledore shook his head. "There is nothing for which to blame her, Severus." He smiled at Hermione, and over the Defence teacher's spluttering asked, "Before you went to Malfoy Manor, did you have it in your head that you would write in the diary?"

"Yes, I..." Hermione stopped and thought back. Words came back to her: _as long as we're sensible and don't write in it_. She had said that, not either of the others. "No. I didn't intend to do that at all." The significance of the question - and its answer - hit her quite suddenly. "You think the Horcrux was... influencing me? That it changed my mind and made me write in it?"

"It makes sense." Harry stared at the sad pile of burnt paper and tattered leather on the desk as he spoke. "Before we went, I thought it'd be stupid for anyone to write in it as well, and yet just now I sat there and encouraged Hermione to do it. We must both have been affected by the thing in the diary."

Professor Dumbledore nodded. There was a faint smile on his face, and the look in his eyes was that of someone listening to music that none of the rest of them could hear. "I have the greatest respect for your good sense, Miss Granger, but anyone could be influenced by something as evil as a Horcrux. Having never studied one in any detail, I cannot be sure, but they are said to possess a certain instinct for self-preservation. Perhaps it is because they contain part of a human soul, or it may simply be the insidious nature of the magic."

"Oh." Professor Snape's sour anger had given way to shock and what looked rather like fear. "Perhaps you were right to want to keep the students out of this, then, Headmaster."

_Don't talk about us like we're not here_, Hermione thought, furiously. "_Anyone_ could be influenced by a Horcrux, if Professor Dumbledore is right." She jutted out her chin in a show of defiance. He stared at her. "That includes _you_, even."

He laughed, though there was very little mirth in it. "I suppose it does." There was a haunted look in his eyes as he added, "Heaven knows that I am not immune to the siren call of the Dark Arts and their power."

His sombre acceptance of her childish retort rather took the wind out of Hermione's sails. "I... I'm sorry, sir, I shouldn't have -"

"Shouldn't have nothing," he returned, sharply. "What you said was perfectly true, and I needed to hear it. Nor should I have voiced my fear for your safety in the way I did. You three have done something only one other person ever has: found one of Voldemort's Horcruxes."

"There were three of us." Draco had said very little since they'd reached the Headmaster's office, and Hermione hadn't been sure if he was angry with her or simply lost in thought. He didn't sound angry now; he seemed more stunned than anything. "Regulus Black figured it out all on his own, though he had Kreacher to help him retrieve the Horcrux. And he... he knew that whatever he was doing was probably going to kill him. I just can't... can't even begin to imagine that..."

He reached out blindly for his father and Sirius grasped his hand, obviously an automatic response to Draco's distress. No one laughed or said anything rude or mocking; in fact, Harry was watching them intently, hunger and longing written on his face. Hermione sighed. She needed to do something to help godfather and godson reconcile and build a relationship. They both wanted it, she could see that, so why were they making it quite so hard?

"My brother was a hero," Sirius said, his voice strained. "Which means he did the right thing and he died for it." This sounded more like something Harry – this world's Harry – might have said. "I don't need you to be a hero. I didn't want or need Regulus to be a hero, either. I would rather have had my brother."

"Your brother was a good man." Professor Dumbledore was clearly trying to be comforting, and Hermione realised that she might not be the most socially inept person in the room.

Sirius looked up, his eyes burning with anger and pain, alive with tears. "My brother was _seventeen_. He never got to be any sort of man." His arm slid around Draco's shoulders and he pulled his son close against his side. "I don't want to have to go through that again. And yet they're right; we can't shelter them, not if Voldemort is coming back. It was Regulus' choice to fight, even though it killed him. That _wasn't your fault_. If these three, or any other students for that matter, choose to fight and die, that won't be on your head either. They have..." He faltered but then managed to continue. "They have the right to make choices we don't like, even if they scare us."

For a long moment there was silence. Then the Headmaster bowed his head. "You are right." He let out a long breath, sounding as affected by Sirius' speech as Hermione felt. "When you want to protect someone it is easy to forget that they have the right to put themselves in danger if they wish."

"I'm sure none of us want to take stupid risks." Hermione meant it; she might be a Gryffindor, but that didn't force her to be reckless, whatever Harry might think. "But I think we need to be prepared for something to happen during the Third Task. Barty Crouch wouldn't have risked exposing himself the way he did if that would ruin the plan."

"You believe that things will progress differently this time around?" Professor Snape regarded her through slightly narrowed eyes, his demeanour curious rather than sceptical. "And you think this despite our discovery that the same Death Eater was impersonating a teacher?"

Hermione waved her arms in an agitated manner as she tried to assemble the right words. "That's... it's - oh, I don't know! I know I was clueless the last time this happened, but things don't feel the same. There's something else, another link somewhere that I've missed. I can't tell you what it is; I just think we'd be stupid to assume nothing will happen during the Third Task just because we caught Barty Crouch."

"We'll be ready," Harry said, briefly gripping her hand in a show of solidarity. "And if nothing happens when we take the Cup, well, it'll just be a relief, won't it? It's not like anyone will laugh at us for being wrong."

"But if you're right, you'll be knowingly putting yourselves into the hands of Voldemort." Draco grimaced at the thought.

"Who'll be expecting only one of us, and for that one to be surprised." Hermione looked him straight in the eye, willing him to understand that she wasn't stupidly putting herself in danger this time. "We ought to be able to take down whichever Death Eater is caring for the nearly helpless Voldemort. Once that's done we'll wait for you to track us - oh, you'll need to put tracking charms on us before the Task starts - and show up to finish him off."

She thought about how Harry had described the pre-resurrection form of Voldemort. An evil baby, disfigured and nearly immobile. The creature had been able to cast spells after a fashion, but with his minder disabled he wouldn't be much of a threat. If everything went according to plan - which, as she knew very well, was in no way guaranteed. Or even very likely. Still, they were in danger anyway, weren't they? Better to face it on their own terms.

"You seem to have put a good deal of thought into this." Professor Snape nodded approvingly, a thin and rather grim-looking smile on his face. He'd moved to stand behind Sirius' chair, she noticed, and his hands were resting on his friend's shoulders. It was as much a gesture of comfort as Sirius reaching out to Draco had been.

"Well, of course I have." Hermione's eyes glittered with humour. "Can you imagine me doing anything else?"

He snorted. "I confess to being rather surprised that you have yet to submit a six foot roll of parchment on the best way to defeat Voldemort."

"Oh, perhaps I should do that." She made a show of seriously considering the suggestion.

Professor Dumbledore cleared his throat. "Enlightening as this meeting has been, I think we should call it to a close. I will have to search my collection of memories for the ones we need, but once I have found them we can all view the contents. There may be clues as to what items Voldemort might have used for his Horcruxes, and even where they are now." He looked tired but hopeful. Destroying a Horcrux had been good for morale, and even the emotional discussion hadn't quite dampened it.

"You'll call us all in to watch them?" Harry gave a frankly suspicious frown; evidently the cynic in him wouldn't allow him to believe.

"Of course." The Headmaster smiled beatifically. "Your insight will be invaluable, I am sure of it."

"Oh." He gave a sudden smile that lit up his face and eyes like a beacon. Even the Harry of her own world had never looked quite like that. Then he nodded politely, and with a general announcement of, "Until next time," he left the office.

No sooner had the door closed than Sirius looked up at Hermione. "Oh, that reminds me. I had something to tell you. About my research."

She felt her stomach lurch and settle again several inches too high, as if it were trying to climb into her throat. The effect the words had on Draco was even more electrifying; he seemed to recoil away from Sirius, his eyes showing fear and anger and betrayal, his lips pressed tightly together, his hands trembling.

Professor Snape, on the other hand, merely looked disapproving. "Really, Sirius, must you do this now?"

"No time like the present," said that man, with what seemed like rather forced heartiness. "I'll have to use your office, Severus - with your permission, of course."

The Defence teacher closed his eyes for several seconds, clearly wishing that he didn't have to deal with this at all. "I still don't think this is either necessary or kind, Sirius, but you may use the office." He reached out and caught Draco's arm before he could volunteer to go with them. "We can stay here and have tea with the Headmaster. Can't we, Albus?"

Professor Dumbledore looked more than a little perplexed by this turn of events, but responded courteously enough. "Certainly. If you could but allow me a few moments to get my tea service together..." He stood, but before turning away to get his cups and teapot, he fixed Sirius with a very serious gaze. This did not make Hermione feel better; along with Professor Snape's reaction, it suggested that whatever Sirius had to tell her couldn't be good.

"Well, then." There was no point in delaying. "Shall we go?"

They went down to Professor Snape's rooms together, though they stayed out in the office with the as yet unfinished marking. After all, as Sirius said, "It'd be rude to use Severus' private quarters without him being here." He didn't sit behind the desk, instead choosing one of the rather stiff and upright chairs over by the fireplace. Hermione sat opposite him, tense and apprehensive, and waited for him to say something.

She didn't have to wait long. "Well, I feel stupid now." He chuckled lightly.

"About what, specifically?" It might have been rude, but Hermione found it very hard to care.

He smiled. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't be so cryptic. The Department of Mysteries doesn't exactly encourage plain speaking, but that's no excuse." There was a pause, and then: "You remember what I said to you at our Christmas dinner, I take it?"

This was what she'd been afraid of. "Of course I do."

"Yes, I suppose you would." He shifted in his chair and swept his hand through his hair. "Well. It would appear that I was wrong. I was too invested in the possible connection to the Black Veil and it coloured my research. Add that to a slight miscalculation in my magical energy equations, and... well, the details are all rather boring, but all you need to know is that I made a mistake." Hermione watched with something approaching dread as he reached into his robes and pulled out a folded piece of parchment. "Here. Once I started looking at it another way, I found the answer."

"Then that... that's a way back to my own world?" Hermione looked at it, her insides twisted up with tension, her mind a mess of conflicting emotions. She wanted it so much – and yet, in a way, she wished she'd never seen the damn thing. If only she could go home _and_ keep all of the good things she'd found here. Or bring her friends and her happy parents from her old world into this; perhaps that would be the better option. Not that it really mattered, in the end, since she knew that she could never have either.

"Exactly." Sirius seemed pleased with himself, and she felt guilty for not being equally pleased with the result of his efforts. "What got you here is something I can't really understand, just a fluke combination of magic and circumstances that I doubt we could replicate. But _this_ is different; it's a ritual adapted from a spell that sends people out of their own time back where they belong."

_Back where they belong_ \- loaded words, especially for Hermione, who was no longer sure exactly where she belonged. She shook her head. "I didn't even know that there was such a spell." It was all she could summon the wit to say.

Sirius frowned, obviously puzzled by her reaction. "It's... I mean, it's a pretty obscure spell, so there's no reason you should have heard of it." He tapped the all-important piece of parchment on his knee. "What matters is that I've found a way to do what I'd thought was impossible."

"Are you... happy about this?"

"Speaking as a researcher, of course I am. Tracking down the right magic to solve a difficult problem is always satisfying." Hermione nodded; she knew that only too well herself. "I have to admit that I'll be sorry to say goodbye to you, and so will Draco."

Her heart sank as she thought of Draco. _Unhappy_ wouldn't even begin to cover how he would feel if she took Sirius' offer and went back. Wait, _if_? Was she really considering the possibility of staying here? How could she even begin to justify that? She needed to go home, back to where she belonged, and she needed to let this world's Hermione have her life back. It would be selfish to stay. And yet... everything she'd gained here, everyone she'd come to love - could she really leave them all behind?

"I know," she said, and her voice broke on the words. "I almost don't want to." It was the first time she'd said it aloud, and the silence that followed was deafening. After a moment she managed to stammer out, "I... that is - I mean..."

Sirius flashed her a rather sad smile and shook his head slowly. "It's alright. I understand how you feel. That was always the danger, wasn't it? You're human. Caring about other people is sort of what we do, isn't it?"

"Yeah, I guess." Hermione eyed his piece of parchment as if it were a venomous snake, poised to strike. "It just... I feel like the answer ought to be obvious, but it really isn't. In a way, I was almost more comfortable thinking that there was no way I could ever go back."

"That makes sense." Sirius nodded, encouragingly. There was an air of expectation around him, and she wondered what he was waiting for. Was there something she was meant to say that she hadn't? "You don't have to do anything right now," he pointed out, after the tense silence had stretched out for a couple of minutes. "You're under magical contract to compete in the Triwizard Tournament, as I think you noted before, so... think about it."

But still she felt that he was waiting for her to say something.

"I don't know what your game is," she said, bluntly. "I don't know what you want to hear. There isn't any way that I can stay, regardless of what I might want. This isn't my world. This isn't my _life_. The chances are that the other Hermione will find some way to come back and throw me out of here anyway. Or, at least, if she's anything like me, she will. How could I ever live with that uncertainty? I don't care what Professor Snape says about nothing being certain in life. This really isn't the same thing at all."

"No." There was a strange expression on Sirius' face. "It's not." He sighed. "Okay. I'll come clean. But... it may take a while, and you have to promise not to hit me before I'm done."

That didn't sound good. "I'm not in the habit of hitting people," she said, stiffly, ignoring the time in third year when she'd slapped Malfoy. She'd been under a lot of stress at the time; that wasn't her usual reaction even to that sort of provocation.

"You may be inclined to make an exception for this." Sirius was actually nervous. It wasn't an act, as far as she could tell. "You see, what I just told you was true - and yet it also wasn't. I was wrong about what happened to you. I've been wrong from the start. We all have. Not about how you could get back, or even _if_ you could get back. What we got wrong, what we all got wrong, was what happened to you in the first place. An alternate universe or a parallel timeline... I'm not entirely sure such things even exist. None of my research bears that out. The Black Veil is a device for execution, just as everyone always thought."

"What?" Hermione couldn't believe her ears. Her chest seemed to be growing tight, and she was almost sure that she was shaking. "But... I don't understand. What _is_ this, if not a parallel world? What's written on the paper, if not my way to get home? Just tell me the truth."

Sirius took a deep breath. "Yes, I really should do that." He pressed the parchment into her hands. "Here. Take it, but don't open it until I've finished explaining. It'll make no sense to you otherwise." Her fingers tightened on the note, and she gave a sharp nod to indicate that he should continue. "It might make for a cool thought experiment, but multiple copies of the world don't exist side by side waiting for people to... fall into them, for want of a better phrasing. That isn't a thing. It's not real. But there's something else that can change the whole world, including things you wouldn't expect, because we don't properly understand causality."

Hermione stared at him. That last part sounded suspiciously like chaos theory, or the butterfly effect - how things were connected in ways that no one could quite understand. "And what is that?"

"Severus hit upon the answer almost immediately, as he always seems to do." Irritation warred with affection in Sirius' voice. "Time. Meddling with time. Usually you can't change this much, as I'm sure you know. But someone - I don't know who - has literally rewritten history around us. They went back in time and changed something, and that something went on to change a lot of other things, some of which were completely unrelated to the original purpose. So… nothing you remember happening before the first day of your sixth year actually happened, because the past has been rewritten. And for some reason only you remember what it was before."

"But _why?_ Why would I remember it and no one else?" Hermione wanted to cry, but that would be the easy way out. She had to figure this out. She needed to understand.

"A fluke, I think." Sirius didn't sound as if he knew, which was the most frustrating thing of all. "It might have been a side effect of whatever spells hit you during the duelling class incident. I also theorised that it might be related to your prior experience of time travel. Did you know that you are - or were, since it didn't happen here - one of the few people ever authorised to use a Time Turner for such a long period? That seems rather suggestive to me. Why give a third year such advanced magic unless there was a hidden purpose?" He paused. "Of course, there's always the possibility that it was you who changed time."

"Wouldn't I remember that?"

"I would have thought so, yes." Sirius grimaced. "Hence why I didn't take it very seriously. What worries me is that this was all Voldemort's doing, that he wanted to use his knowledge of the future to try to fix his mistakes. He must have tried to catch and kill Harry away from Lily to avoid the backfire, but even though it didn't work he still ended up in a better position, didn't he? We have a destined hero who isn't famous, who isn't even much liked or trusted. And Voldemort has clearly taken more time to plan his resurrection this time. I think there must be other levels to the plot that we haven't seen yet." He gave a grim smile. "That you proved impervious to the time adjustment would be an act of Providence, in that case."

"So..." Hermione was floundering just a little. This didn't make any sense. Did it? "There is no other world? None of that exists? Or ever existed? I can't..." Her voice cracked, but she continued valiantly. "There's no way for me to go home."

Sirius sighed. "Just... look at the note I gave you."

Obediently, Hermione unfolded the piece of parchment with shaking hands. There was no formula or calculation or set of instructions written on it. Instead she saw four very simple words, the meaning of which made her want to laugh and cry and scream all at once.

_You are already home._


	28. How We Used To Feel

**Author's Notes**: Perhaps fortunately, circumstances prevent too much angst about the revelation in the previous chapter. I realised while writing this that I hadn't put in as much as I originally wanted about Hermione's friendship with Lavender. So, anyone who's been interested in that aspect of the story, this chapter is for you. It managed to turn into a defence of reading "kids' books" and "trashy" genre fiction at some point. Oh, well. (This is also the first and only time in the story that we go out of Hermione's PoV.)

I just wanted to take this moment to thank all my reviewers and followers; a little encouragement goes a long way, and I definitely appreciate the support. (Though just seeing that this story has nearly 50,000 views is also nice.)

As we get into the climax of the story, I will try to update every 1-2 days, so as not to leave anyone hanging for too long.

* * *

**28\. How We Used To Feel**

It just didn't make any sense.

Sirius' terrible revelation nagged at Hermione's thoughts. She'd spent far more time and energy than she could really afford turning it over and over in her mind, but she still couldn't get it to add up right. It wasn't that she didn't _believe_ him. Or, at least, she didn't think he was lying to her; he_ had_ given her several wrong explanations before now. Perhaps this would turn out to be yet another, because it was just so hard to accept.

You _couldn't _change time like that, not on such a large scale. She knew the rules; she'd had to learn them. And what motivation would anyone, even Voldemort, have to do so? That it might be an attempt to avoid an otherwise inevitable defeat sounded plausible – or it did until she remembered the arrogance of the man. As far as she'd ever been able to work out, he was not the sort to admit defeat, even when it was staring him in the face. He would not realise that he was losing until he was dead and it was too late to change anything.

But what if he _had_, after all?

Before she could work herself into too much of a state about it, something else happened. Just three days after her conversation with Sirius, she was shaken from one form of uncertainty into another by the news that Horace Slughorn had died. Imprisonment and near-starvation had been too much for the old man's system, and by the time he'd been found he was too far gone to recover. Hermione felt terribly guilty, knowing as she did that she could have prevented it. She hadn't known for certain, but she'd suspected. She'd known _enough._ No one else had accused her, but she couldn't help but feel that she was to blame.

But that wasn't even the worst of it. More than that, his death had somehow made it all seem _real_ to her, in a way that it hadn't before. It was one thing to talk about fighting Voldemort, or even to thwart and defeat his followers, but now a man was dead, and she had done nothing to save him. Sirius had died once, in a timeline that no longer existed, and that had been the moment when Harry had realised what the stakes were. Hermione hadn't needed that sort of awakening, or so she'd thought. She already knew the price of failure.

Had she been wrong? Or was it more that, before the news of Slughorn's death, the rewritten world had seemed kinder than the one she remembered? Not all of the changes had been positive, true, but she _had _still thought of this world as in some way a better place. That had been at the heart of her agonising over the idea of going home, hadn't it? Home was home, and she missed it, but this world's appeal had been hard to deny. Mr. Weasley might be dead, and her parents might be... separated, but on balance the past was, had been, less cruel here. She thought of Cedric Diggory, Lily Potter, Sirius Black... all still alive where before they'd been dead. Of a Snape who had never become a Death Eater. Of a Draco Malfoy who hadn't been raised to be a willing pawn of Voldemort.

So perhaps, in the end, it was just that Slughorn's death served as a reminder that this... this alternate history did not exist for her benefit. It had been created by someone else, perhaps by Voldemort himself, who wanted the Death Eaters to win the war. And now whatever help Slughorn might have been able to offer was lost to them forever. She didn't know everything. She didn't know very much at all. Things were going to happen that she would not be able to predict. The knowledge she did have would be helpful, but they couldn't win by that alone.

It wasn't even half the battle.

She sighed, and Lavender looked up from her essay notes with a frown. "Everything alright, Hermione?"

"I..." The guilt hit suddenly, like a stab wound to the stomach, and she barely suppressed the impulse to run her hand over the area that had now never been scarred by Dolohov's curse. Lavender was concerned for her. She always had been, ever since Hermione had arrived here – ever since the world had changed – and it now seemed rude and unfair that she should have agonised so much about telling _Draco_ the truth, but hadn't thought to do the same for Lavender. Her best friend. A friend whose mockery was seldom pointed and always good-natured, whose exasperation was affectionate and usually short-lived.

What a novelty it had been to have a truly supportive friend! And how had she repaid that?

Hermione bit her lip and met Lavender's eyes. The worry she saw there made up her mind. "I have something I need to tell you."

And maybe the third time would be the charm.

* * *

"I can't believe you kept it from me all this time!"

Hermione wasn't surprised by the reaction, not really; she supposed that Lavender had a perfect right to be angry about it. She'd just hoped that maybe her best friend would understand, and she wouldn't have to go through the same heart-rending and exhausting process as she had with Draco. But, after all, it was only to be expected…

"You've never been able to keep anything from me before! How on earth did you manage it?" On second thoughts, Lavender didn't exactly sound all that angry. It was almost as if she thought that the whole thing was funny somehow.

"Well, I was sure people would think I was crazy." Hermione knew she was leaving herself open to a snide comment here, but she didn't care. "And that maybe they'd lock me up. I don't know. Whatever it is wizards do to crazy people. So I made sure not to let anything slip to anyone, because... well, because I was afraid."

"And… wait, so it wasn't actually an alternate universe but a timeline that now no longer exists?" Trust Lavender to leap right into a game of Twenty Questions. Her eyes were alight with the spirit of inquiry and curiosity. It was... well, it was strangely like looking in a mirror. Hermione nodded, trying not to laugh. "Huh. Interesting. What was I like before? And who do you think it was that changed history?"

Best to tackle the easiest question first. "I don't know. Sirius said maybe it was V – You-Know-Who, but I don't know if I believe that. Someone on his side, though, almost certainly." Hermione paused for a moment. She looked at the Lavender in front of her, the one who had now always existed, and felt just a little sad. "And you were... um, kind of a gossip, actually. Well, you still are, I guess, but... I mean a _silly_ gossip. Always giggling and looking at boys."

Lavender rolled her eyes. "I bet that drove you mad."

"We... weren't really friends." It was hard to say, even though she knew now that it had never been true.

"Oh." Lavender blinked a few times. "Well, I guess whoever it was did me a favour, then."

"I... you think?" Hermione narrowed her suddenly slightly misty eyes in her friend's direction.

"Of course!" Lavender seized her forearms with an almost violent enthusiasm, as though she was contemplating shaking some sense or self-esteem into her. "A world where you're not my friend and I don't get the point of studying hard? That sounds pretty horrible to me."

"Yeah. I suppose it was." She was not going to cry. She wasn't. "You were one of the most surprising things about the new world or timeline or whatever this really is." Not as surprising as Draco, of course, but to mention that would rather derail the conversation. "I wouldn't have expected we'd be friends, but from the first time I... well, met you again, it made perfect sense."

"I should hope so!" Lavender grinned. "Our first actual meeting was... wait, you won't remember it now. That's kind of difficult to get my head around. It's like you got hit with a Memory Charm, but you also remember a bunch of stuff that _didn't_ happen, so..." She sighed, then brightened a little. "Oh, would you like to know how we met?"

_Would_ _she?_ "Yes. Yes, I think that might be interesting." There had to be an explanation for the differences in Lavender, and now maybe she'd figure it out. Then she shook her head. "You're just... accepting it? All of this?"

Lavender laughed. "Yeah. Why? Shouldn't I? I know you; you wouldn't make something like this up. Maybe some people might, but _you_ wouldn't. Besides, you've never been able to lie this well, not to me."

"And if you say instead that you _don't_ know me, then that can only mean that I must be telling the truth anyway." Hermione smirked.

Her friend snorted. "Yeah, that." She leaned back in her chair and looked around. "This is a nice room. I had no idea it was even here." Today the Room of Requirement was warm and simply furnished, almost shabby. It was comfortable, but seeing it had caused a sharp, almost physical pain. It wasn't what she'd asked for, specifically, but what she'd apparently _required _was something she'd never expected to see again in this lifetime.

"Hogwarts has many secrets," she said, but it sounded hollow. This was not lost on Lavender, who gave her a look of sharp enquiry – so Hermione decided to pre-empt any questions she might ask. "This Room becomes whatever you want. I asked it for a place to talk, and this is what it came up with. Which is... it's what my bedroom looked like in my parents' house. In the old timeline. When they were together."

"Ah." Lavender was insightful enough to understand and sensitive enough not to press for any more information. "Well, it's a nice room. I like it. So, I was going to tell you about how we first met and became friends, wasn't I?"

"You were."

"Well, we didn't become friends immediately," Lavender began. This didn't surprise Hermione in the least; it had taken her until Halloween to make any friends at all, and even then she'd needed help from a mountain troll. She'd never had the gift of conversing easily with strangers, and she'd been even more awkward at the age of eleven. "We first met on the Hogwarts Express, actually..."

* * *

"C'mon, Lavender, stop being so boring!"

Trying to read in the same compartment as Parvati Patil and Hannah Abbott was easier said than done. And probably a mistake; any minute now they'd call her a swot, even though the book was just a silly thing about a teenage witch and her special bond with a unicorn. Didn't they read things like that? Her cousin Derek said that _all_ girls liked that series, and sneered whenever he saw her carrying one of them. (Though Lavender knew full well that he had _Moira and Sparky Against the Ogres_ hidden under his pillow, the great prat.)

She sighed and closed the book. It was no good arguing, because there were two of them and she needed them to like her. "What do you want to do instead, then? I've got a set of Exploding Snap cards in my trunk."

"That's just for kids." Parvati laughed and shook her head. "Honestly, Lavender, maybe you should go sit with Padma and talk about how many times you've read all of the textbooks. Unless..." She reached into her bag and pulled out a glossy magazine. "You want to have a look at the latest Teen Witch Weekly?"

"Ooh, really?" Lavender's eyes went wide. "My mum won't let me read it."

"Your mum's _boring_." That was the worst insult Parvati knew. "She doesn't want you to have any fun."

Before Lavender could say anything, the compartment door opened and a girl stood there – a girl with bushy hair, big teeth and a very serious expression. "Has anyone seen a toad?" Her voice was bossy, and it sounded more like an order than a question. "Neville's lost his."

It was only then that Lavender noticed the rather sad-looking boy trailing along behind the girl. He was probably shy and scared of talking to so many people, and so he'd found an older student to do it for him. "We haven't seen any toads," she said, because Parvati and Hannah were too busy giggling, probably at the girl's hair. "Isn't there any magic you can use for it?"

The girl looked at Lavender with interest. "Oh, probably. I just don't know any." Her mouth twisted as she said that. "I've only tried a few spells, but they've all worked for me so far. I read all the textbooks, of course, but none of them said how to find a missing toad."

Lavender blinked. _Of course? _ Only Padma Patil would be so crazy as to read all of the books. Then something else struck her. "You're a first year too?" She didn't say 'I thought you were older'; her mother had taught her that this was very rude.

"Yes. I didn't know anything about magic until I got my letter, but it's _fascinating_, isn't it?" Her eyes glowed, and Lavender found herself agreeing before she knew where she was. "Oh," the bossy girl said, after a moment, looking suddenly rather awkward. "I'm Hermione Granger, by the way."

"Lavender Brown. And my friends here are Parvati Patil and Hannah Abbott." She looked around Hermione at Neville, who was just standing there looking as lost as his toad. "Hi. Why don't you come in?"

"But... Trevor?" Neville looked like he might cry.

"Oh, of course, we have to find Neville's toad. If it's not here..."

"Not that I've seen." Lavender was sure she would have noticed it. If nothing else, the others would have started screaming.

"Who wants a toad, anyway?" Parvati smiled encouragingly at Neville. "Maybe if you tell your folks you lost it they'll get you a better pet."

Hannah scoffed at this. "It's his _pet_, Parvati. Of course he wants it back."

Hermione looked rather sour, but Lavender wasn't sure if that was just what her face did when she wasn't paying attention to it. "Yes, well, thanks for the help, anyway." She turned. "Come on, Neville. We'll find Trevor. He must be somewhere."

No sooner had the compartment door closed than Hannah said, "What an awful busybody."

Lavender saw Hermione stiffen through the glass and realised she must have heard. "She wasn't that bad. It's nice to help other people."

Hannah flushed. "Yeah, I know."

Parvati rolled her eyes. "She'll probably be in Ravenclaw with you and Padma, Lavender Blue."

"Don't call me that!" She hated the whine in her voice. "And I'm not going to be in stupid old Ravenclaw. I'm going to be a _Gryffindor_, just like my parents were. You'll see."

And, as it turned out, she _did_ get Sorted into Gryffindor, along with Parvati – and the busybody Hermione.

"Going down the train talking to a lot of strangers is brave," Lavender said, when Parvati tried to express her shock at this. Anyway, if Percy Weasley – who had talked at her about the importance of studying for about five minutes – was a Gryffindor, then why not Hermione?

After a while, she left the common room and went up the stairs to the first year girls' dormitory. Inside she found Hermione, who was curled up on her bed reading a textbook. It was _The Standard Book of Spells_, and the other girl was staring at the page so intently that Lavender thought it might burst into flames.

"Are you worried about knowing less than people from magical families?" She wasn't sure what had made her say that, but it didn't seem all that unlikely.

Hermione looked up and frowned. "No. Well, sort of. I'm more just afraid of not doing well. My mother doesn't understand magic, but she knows all about marks and exams. She wants me to be the best I can be, and I don't want to disappoint her."

"My mum says there needs to be moderation in everything," Lavender put in. "Studying madly on the first day at school isn't moderation. You'll go mad or something." She sat down on the bed next to Hermione's. "I'm glad it's not just me and Parvati, though. She makes fun of me for wanting to read."

"You like to read?" Hermione was looking at her in an odd way. "Most of the children I went to school with made fun of _me_ for reading."

Lavender got the impression that she meant something worse than Parvati's gentle teasing. "Maybe if you'll be my friend, no one will make fun of either of us." She laughed. "Or they'll make fun of both of us and we won't care."

Hermione gave her a funny little smile. "I think... I'd like that."

"Good. Just don't call me Lavender Blue or Lavender Green and maybe we can stay friends..."

* * *

"Wow." Hermione was silent for a moment before realising that this response was horribly inadequate. "I mean, that didn't happen in my... in the past I remember." She flushed, then thought about it a bit more and frowned. "It's odd that you mention reading books; I don't remember seeing you – or not you – reading anything that wasn't absolutely required for a lesson. I don't understand why that would have changed."

Lavender shrugged. "Until we became friends I only really read children's fiction, not theory books or anything."

"You said something about a girl and her unicorn." Hermione was curious; she'd never really read much fiction, but she might have been tempted by a series about magical creatures when she'd first encountered the wizarding world. "I don't remember anything like that."

"Strange, given that you basically live in bookshops." Lavender smirked. "Though you don't read novels – unless they're historical romance, apparently."

"I only read that because Draco asked me to!"

"Which is why the cover is so battered and the spine is creased?" Lavender was definitely laughing at her.

"Shut up."

"Ooh, what a stunning rejoinder." Her friend's lips twitched. "But anyway, I first got into books by reading _Moira and Sparky_. She's a teenage witch with far more curiosity than is good for her, he's a unicorn who wants to take a more active role in protecting the forest. They have all sorts of adventures together."

"And reading those made you love books?" Hermione found this almost too incredible for words – but maybe it didn't matter what people were reading, as long as they were reading _something_. If a series of silly books written for pre-teen girls could make the difference between a vapid Ron-stealing gossip and this smart and sensible Lavender, maybe she'd been wrong to look down on that sort of writing. "That's the big difference? That's why you're... you?"

"I don't know. If it is, I think that's sort of impressive. Maybe I should write to the author and tell her she changed my life."

Hermione snorted. "Hah. Maybe." She hesitated, thinking over her next move, but there was no reason why she shouldn't make the suggestion. "You should come to our next meeting with the Headmaster."

"Discussing how to save the world?" Lavender raised her eyebrows, but couldn't disguise her interest.

"Something like that." Hermione pressed her lips together in a grim line. "Someone _changed time_ to stop Voldemort from losing this war – so we have to be prepared to fight and stop him. And I want you to be there with me. I think that we'll find a way... together."

"I..." Lavender gaped at her. "I don't know what to say, Hermione. I'm touched. And of course I'll help."

Hermione chuckled. "As far as 'what to say' goes, I think that pretty much covers it."

Lavender poked her in the fleshy part of her arm, but she snorted. Then, more seriously: "Do you think Dumbledore will mind?"

"If he does, Professor Snape will talk some sense into him. Or maybe Sirius will. Again."

"Sirius? You mean Draco's dad told the Headmaster off?" Lavender grinned. "I'd pay to see that."

"You might not have to." Though it hadn't been as amusing as Lavender seemed to think it would be. "But maybe he won't want to go through it all again." She sighed. "I suppose we ought to get back to the common room. I've got a lot of work to do."

"We've always got loads of work to do, haven't we?" Lavender squeezed her hand and smiled. "Wouldn't trade for the world, though."

Hermione smiled back. She had no words... but just then she didn't seem to need them.

* * *

When they turned up for the meeting, Professor Dumbledore's only response to Lavender's presence was to raise one eyebrow slightly. It was almost disappointing, really, though perhaps it shouldn't have been. Lavender definitely looked put out that she'd been denied the show she'd been looking forward to. Still, from the point of view of actually getting on with things, it was better not to re-tread old arguments. They had plans to make and memories to view.

These sat in glass vials on the Headmaster's desk, quietly swirling around like captured fog. Everyone eyed them with interest, but it was Professor Snape who spoke. "These are, I assume, the memories of which you spoke, Albus?"

There was a subtle difference in his manner towards the Headmaster, Hermione realised. He seemed more confident, more at his ease. She wondered if it was something to do with the task Professor Dumbledore had set him, the gathering of the 'old crowd', whoever they were.

Her thoughts were diverted by the Headmaster's reply. "They are. I do not know how important they may prove to be, but I have come to certain conclusions by watching them, and I am curious to see if you agree with me. Or, alternatively, if you will see something I did not." He put his hand out, hesitating over one vial before sighing and moving on to another. "That one is mostly in Parseltongue, I am afraid."

Before she could consider the wisdom of her actions, Hermione blurted: "But Harry can understand Parseltongue!"

Her Slytherin friend treated her to an especially cold and unimpressed glare. "What? That's stupid. Why would you think that?"

She flushed. "It's the scar." Harry rubbed his forehead in an almost absent-minded manner. "The way it was explained to me was that when Voldemort tried and failed to kill you, he transferred some of his powers to you. He's a Parselmouth, so you got that from him."

Harry looked slightly nauseous, and Hermione couldn't say she blamed him. "You mean to say that part of... _him_ is inside me?" The next moment he froze, eyes wide with horror, and she wondered if he'd just had the same awful idea as she had. "Part of him? No. Oh, no. No."

"It'll be okay, Harry." She held out her hand, and he seized it as if he were drowning and she'd offered him a lifebelt.

"It... not if I'm right. How could it be?" His eyes were wild and he stared at her imploringly, as though he really thought she could help.

Hermione looked at Professor Dumbledore and then at Sirius. "Is that even possible?" she asked, before realising that they might not yet have realised what she was talking about. "A human Horcrux, I mean."

The Headmaster didn't even look surprised. "I have never heard of such a thing. It would be a great risk, to put a part of one's soul into something that can think for itself – but in this case it would have been unintentional." He frowned. "If true, that would mean that Voldemort's soul was almost unfathomably broken."

"Seven pieces, then?" Draco had been following the conversation with an admirable – and really rather annoying – degree of calm.

"Yes, there could be." Professor Dumbledore did not sound nearly worried enough about this for Hermione's liking. "I had considered living Horcruxes," he added. "As the existence of the Diary proved that Voldemort showed little regard for safety or common sense when it came to creating his. But I found no reason to think he had done so, or at least not intentionally. An accidental Horcrux would be surprising, but I am not sure that it is impossible."

Well. That was not comforting at all.

"There is a very simple way to test if Potter is a Parselmouth, at least." Professor Snape seemed even more impatient than was usual for him. "Let us view the memory and see if he can translate the speech. If he cannot, then there is no reason to think he might be a Horcrux."

"And if I can?"

"Well, then it remains a possibility." Professor Snape shook his head. "It would prove nothing... but perhaps there are spells to detect whether an object is a Horcrux." He shrugged. "Though those might simply search for a soul within the item, which would be no good in the present case given that Potter presumably has a soul of his own."

"I haven't sold it to the Devil yet, if that's what you mean."

Professor Snape snorted, and Hermione tried to pretend that she hadn't laughed, even a little. "That is good to hear, Potter." His lips twitched slightly. "Now, can we please get on and view a memory? Any memory will do. My desk seems to have disappeared under the huge pile of marking I still need to do."

"By all means, Severus. My apologies." Professor Dumbledore picked up the Parseltongue memory and took it over to one of his cupboards, which opened to reveal a strange basin-like object. Hermione recognised it as a Pensieve, though she'd never seen one in the flesh – in the marble? – before. The Headmaster poured the fog from the vial into the basin and stirred it with his wand, an intricately carved piece of some dark wood. "It would be best if we all went together; I would not like for anyone to get lost."

After arriving in the memory, Hermione was forced to concede that she would not like to be lost and alone in such a place. It was an incomprehensible horror, both literally and figuratively; most of the conversation was in Parseltongue, for one thing – and, more than that, she simply couldn't fathom how anyone could treat their daughter so. Maybe the hissed dialogue gave context to the abuse, but she couldn't imagine anything that would excuse it. Hermione was right there with Ogden on that front.

That poor girl. Merope Gaunt, as Professor Dumbledore had called her, she who would be Voldemort's mother. Not that it was her fault that he'd become a monster. She must have died before he'd even learned about magic, so how could she be to blame? The Gaunts had not been pleasant people, but you couldn't inherit evil. Wasn't Draco's life proof enough of that?

"It's all too horrible." Her voice shook slightly. Then, accusingly: "Why do we need to see this?"

The Headmaster did not reprimand her for her tone; instead, he smiled. "The ring on Marvolo's finger interests me. It was an heirloom of a wizarding family from which Tom Riddle could claim direct descent. I would not be surprised if he had tried to acquire it."

"So that he could make it into a Horcrux?" That was the only explanation that made sense to her.

"Exactly." He gestured towards poor unfortunate Merope. "She wears the locket of Slytherin, you see, the one that Regulus found and Sirius destroyed. Voldemort values his pureblood ancestry, and would likely collect anything that connected him to that past."

"And then when he wanted to make his Horcruxes, he chose to use such ancient and noticeable artefacts rather than just... a stone or a piece of crystal glass or something?" Lavender frowned. "That's just stupid. I would've thought that if someone wanted to be immortal they'd take more care about what they were doing."

"Voldemort's vanity has always been his undoing," Sirius put in, gruffly. "Regulus survived as a spy for longer than a teenage boy ought to have, simply because his Dark Lord never imagined that someone so small and insignificant would even try to thwart him. He attacked James and Harry that day because he couldn't see any way it might backfire on him. Even knowing, as we must assume he did, that in another timeline it had all gone very wrong."

"The magic that saved Harry the first time wasn't a mother's love. It was a willing sacrifice of one life for another." Hermione frowned. "But you'd think that Voldemort wouldn't make the same mistake again. I mean, if he were the one who came back, at least."

The Gaunts sent the Ministry official running, and the memory ended. They blinked at each other in the light of the present day office – and then, inevitably, all eyes turned to Harry.

"Okay, so I could understand everything they were saying, are you satisfied now?" He glared at them. "It wasn't all that interesting. Mostly it was just really creepy, as you'd expect from a family who spoke mostly in Parseltongue and lived in a hovel with a _snake nailed to the door_." He shivered. "I can translate it if you want, but you might be happier not knowing what they were saying."

"If you are willing, I would be interested to hear a translation of the words – but that can wait." Hermione wondered if Professor Dumbledore had a particular reason to want to know what was said within the memory, but couldn't think of anything. Really, the gist of the conversation had been clear enough from their body language, or so she thought. "Shall we move on to the next memory, for now?"

"Just one more." Professor Snape looked around at the others. "I would imagine that my students have work they should be doing anyway."

"Especially the two swots." Harry smirked at them, seeming unaffected when Hermione jabbed him in the ribs.

"Children, please." There was something about Professor Snape's voice that commanded respect – and compliance. "Let us see what else the Headmaster has collected for our edification."

"I do not know how _edifying _any of these memories truly are." Professor Dumbledore seemed somehow grave and amused at the same time. He turned away and gathered up the disturbing memory, pouring it back into its vial. This he put back on his desk, and replaced it with a second set of swirling mist. It looked identical to the first; perhaps all memories did.

Its content was not the same, not at all. If anything, it was worse. While it came as no surprise to any of them that Voldemort would victimise a more or less helpless old woman, it was still unpleasant to watch. At the end, when they emerged, Hermione could tell from looking at the faces of the others that she was not the only person there who felt slightly nauseous.

"The Cup, I suppose?" Sirius, who had been unusually quiet so far, spoke up now, sounding rather troubled. "That gives me an idea." Then, conscious of everyone's eyes on him, he added: "I'll let you know if it pans out."

The Headmaster nodded, seeming satisfied. "Good, then." He turned to Harry. "I would like you to return tomorrow evening, Mr. Potter. We need to discuss the possibility of a human Horcrux – and the translation of that first memory, besides."

Harry grimaced, but nodded. "Yes, sir."

Looking at them each in turn, Professor Dumbledore added, "It should go without saying, but I shall say it anyway. Under no circumstances are you to conduct a search for more Horcruxes. They will almost certainly be protected by terrible curses, having been hidden by Voldemort himself and not by a follower who was likely ignorant of their true purpose."

When Harry and Draco both began to protest, he interrupted them, his eyes hard and entirely devoid of merriment. "You asked me for information, and that was all I ever agreed to give you. I will _not_ allow you to fight more battles than you need to. The two Champions may need to be prepared to thwart the Death Eaters' plans for the Third Task, but aside from that you are leave this war to those who are better placed to fight it. Do I make myself clear?"

There were various mumbles of "yes, sir" and similar acknowledgements. No one quite dared to argue or complain. The main thought in Hermione's head was that she had never heard the Headmaster sound quite so serious – or so dangerous. Of course, she reminded herself, he was the only person whom Voldemort had ever feared. It shouldn't be surprising that there was another side to him, one that he rarely showed to his students.

"Good." The jovial twinkle had returned as suddenly as it had left. "Now, if I could just take a few more moments of your time, Severus."

It was clearly not a request. "If you must, then you may." Professor Snape sank back into his chair with rather poor grace.

"The rest of you may go." Professor Dumbledore smiled at them. "I will keep you informed of the progress of our hunt for the Horcruxes. I promised you that much, and I intend to keep my word."

And with that, it seemed, they would have to be satisfied.


	29. In These Loaded Dice

**Author's Notes:** Yes, I am skipping over some stuff here. My thought process was mostly that if people wanted to read about a Horcrux hunt, _Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows_ already exists. I am sorry if anyone finds this disappointing. On the other hand, the next chapter will be full of excitement – though probably not very _fun_ – and I shall try to get that up tomorrow for your reading pleasure.

* * *

**29\. In These Loaded Dice**

Somehow, incredibly, everything finally seemed to be coming together.

First, a beautiful golden cup simply _appeared_ at one of their meetings in the Headmaster's office, with no explanation given – though the rather smug look on Sirius' face gave Hermione the impression that he must have had something to do with it.

Looking at the Cup, gaudy yellow gold covering the darkness of the soul fragment within, she felt suddenly rather cold. It was undoubtedly very valuable – such a quantity of precious metal could not have been cheap, and that was before one considered the fact that it had once belonged to the Founder Helga Hufflepuff – but she couldn't say that she would be sorry to see it destroyed. It seemed almost like justice for the old woman who had been cruelly murdered, and the house-elf who had been forced to take the blame.

Then, a couple of weeks later, Harry showed up with a battered silver tiara that Dumbledore took away from him immediately. Her friend had been even more reserved and secretive than usual in the time since they'd dealt with the Cup, and when asked where he'd found the thing he would only say: "I tried looking at the secret Room in a different way, that's all." That was obviously not allowed to be an end to the matter; under the steady gaze of the Headmaster he scowled and snapped out: "I wasn't _trying _to find a Horcrux, I swear. It was just… just – I wanted to hide something, okay?"

"And in doing so you found something that someone else had hidden in that same place, many years before." Professor Dumbledore turned the tiara over and over in his hands, then held it still and eyed the inscription with interest. "Hm. 'Wit beyond measure is man's greatest treasure'. I think this must originally have belonged to one of the Ravenclaw family. Perhaps even the great Rowena herself." He set it down on his desk and waved his wand over it in a complicated pattern, muttering incomprehensible words under his breath. After a moment they all saw the dull red glow. "And now it is most assuredly a Horcrux."

"But how would _Harry_ know that it was?" Lavender sounded both amazed and slightly accusatory as she looked at her classmate.

Harry shrugged and averted his eyes. "It just felt _wrong_, I guess. Like… like every hair on my body was standing on end, and my mouth tasted like metal. Not quite like blood, though. It was heavier than that, almost suffocating." He shivered. "Touching it felt so awful that I _knew_ it had to be one of Voldemort's soul things."

"I had no idea that they'd feel quite so unpleasant." The researcher in Hermione wanted to touch the tiara and experience it for herself, but the rest of her said that she was _not_ going to do something quite that bloody stupid. This particular inner voice sounded more like Draco than Professor Snape. "The diary didn't, but it was intended to be opened and used by someone, so it would've defeated the object if it had, I don't know, exuded some sort of atmosphere of evil. It was meant to seem as much as possible like a normal book."

"I suppose it could just be that I'm unusually sensitive to them," Harry said, with a pointed glare at the Headmaster. Hermione wanted to ask what he meant, and why he was so angry, but she strongly suspected that neither of them would tell her. Something was going on, and there seemed to be some plan concerning Harry – who was still one of her best friends, despite everything that had changed – but she didn't know what it was. It was driving her crazy, especially since she couldn't forget the terrifying theory that Harry might himself be one of the Horcruxes.

"Miss Granger is likely correct about the diary, in any case." From his acerbic tone and sharp glare, Professor Snape was no happier about the state of affairs than she was. "And some people might wonder what it was that you were trying to hide, Mr. Potter."

Harry shifted uncomfortably. "It wasn't anything important."

"Indeed?" That raised eyebrow should have been patented as an interrogation technique.

"Severus." Professor Dumbledore did not raise his voice, but there was a definite trace of reprimand, which Hermione thought was rather unfair. "The main priority is to destroy the Horcrux, would you not agree?"

"But I..." Professor Snape met his eyes and abruptly stopped protesting. "Yes, Headmaster."

By the end of the session, another piece of twisted metal had joined the other three ruined Horcruxes, and more than one set of feathers had been ruffled. That _some people_ were still keeping secrets, even while claiming to be sharing as much as they could... well, that didn't sit well with either Hermione or Professor Snape. But what could they do about it?

The ring from the very first memory turned up a few weeks after that, sitting innocuously on a small cushion on the desk. It wasn't entirely clear where it had come from, but the Headmaster seemed inordinately pleased with himself, and only sobered when Professor Snape said, "It was all I could do to keep Albus from trying to wear the damn thing. God only knows why he wanted to."

Was this another secret? Hermione wondered. But then the thought of the Headmaster willingly touching a dangerous artefact, even trying to put it on his finger, awakened something in her memory. "Oh! So that's why he had a blackened hand, because Professor Snape wasn't there to stop him!"

"What?" Perhaps unsurprisingly, this poorly-explained thought meant absolutely nothing to anybody else in the room.

"It was one of the first questions I asked you, do you remember?" She looked straight at Professor Snape.

"I..." His brow creased in thought. "Yes. You asked if the Headmaster had a blackened hand, which I thought was a completely bizarre question. Now... you're right. It must have been something to do with the ring Horcrux – though I still don't know what that was about."

Professor Dumbledore looked very tired and sad, Hermione noticed. His only reply was: "Just one more folly in a long life full of them."

"I don't understand." Professor Snape's frown intensified.

"I hope that you never do."

The silence grew thick and heavy, choking the air in the office. Hermione wondered what those grave words had meant. Was the ring something else as well as a Horcrux? Did it have some extra significance to the Headmaster that would drive him to take such a senseless risk? She leaned forward and squinted at the small black object, not daring to touch it but curious about what secrets it might hide. The only clue she could see was a strange triangle emblem engraved into the material where another ring might have been set with a precious stone.

"What is the symbol on the ring?" She looked up in time to note the expression on the Headmaster's face, apparently a response to her question. Whatever that triangle meant, he knew it – and perhaps that was the reason why he'd wanted to touch the cursed ring.

"It is... in a way, it is a maker's mark." Professor Dumbledore looked and sounded almost unfathomably miserable. "The ring was made to hold an incredible object; a stone that could defeat Death itself." He sighed. "Or so it was said – but that is not really true. It can show you the shadow of someone you have lost, but no more than that. And yet... I had thought that perhaps to see them and speak to them might be enough."

Professor Snape was visibly affected by this speech, but he collected himself enough to shake his head and break the spell. "It would never be enough. You would always end up wanting more time, for as long as you held the Stone." He looked into the Headmaster's eyes, and whatever he saw made him move the ring away. "Besides, Voldemort made this into a Horcrux. Who can say what that horrific magic might have done to the Stone's power? The chance of corruption would be far too high. I think we should just destroy this and have done with it. There is too much temptation here, for more than one of us."

"Thank you, Severus." Professor Dumbledore bowed his head in acknowledgement of the point. "You are right; it would be wisest to destroy both the Stone and the Horcrux before either can cause any more harm in the world."

A short while later, they sat looking at five broken magical artefacts, the ruined shells of what had once been Voldemort's Horcruxes.

"How many more are left, do you think?" According to their original theory, there were another two to find, which ought not to have been so very daunting a task – except that they had no more clues, and no idea what they should be looking for.

"I think either one or two, assuming that Voldemort had the time to complete his plan." Professor Dumbledore seemed rather melancholy as he looked at the destroyed Horcruxes, and Hermione found that she agreed with him. It was a terrible shame that these objects, many of which had possessed great powers or historical significance, had been tainted so cruelly. There had been no alternative but to destroy them, but it was still a waste.

Then she frowned as she realised exactly what he'd said. "One?"

"It depends. He might have wanted to have a seven-part soul, acting on the theory that this would make him stronger – and, in that case, he would only have made six Horcruxes." From the authoritative tone of Sirius' voice, and the way Professor Snape was nodding along, it was obvious that the two men had discussed this between themselves before now. Probably while she was working on her essays or studying spells that might be useful in the Third Task.

"Even so, we don't know what he might have used to create a sixth Horcrux. If he did."

"What a cheerful thought." Harry was smirking, so she could only assume that he was laughing at her.

She felt defensive. "Well, we don't. There's no good pretending that things are better than they really are." This served to wipe the smile from Harry's face; they all knew now that the timeline had been altered, probably in order to benefit Voldemort and the Death Eaters. It was not a good position to be in, and lying to themselves – or joking about it – wouldn't help.

"It might be that Lord Voldemort had yet to complete his set of Horcruxes when he lost his power." Professor Dumbledore's voice was light enough, but Hermione could tell that he was being deadly serious. "It would be very like him to want to use the death of his prophesised enemy" – he nodded towards Harry – "to make his last Horcrux. And we already know that _that_ murder did not go according to plan."

Harry shifted uncomfortably under the Headmaster's gaze, and rubbed his scar rather self-consciously.

"So we... might have found all of the Horcruxes that exist?" Hermione couldn't believe that it was that easy. "But only if he wanted to have a seven-part soul rather than seven Horcruxes, and only if he never got around to making the last one before he got hit by his own rebounding curse." There were too many layers of uncertainty here. She didn't like it.

"That is a very succinct summary of the problem, Miss Granger." Professor Snape sounded almost flippant, but there was a troubled look in his eye. "So it is difficult to know whether or not our job is done – or as close to done as it can be until we find what has become of Voldemort's original soul and banish it to the Abyss."

"Do you think we can do anything before he resurrects himself with Harry's blood?" This had been weighing on Hermione's mind for some time; it seemed less than ideal to allow a powerful Dark Lord to return to life before cutting him down. Or trying to, at least.

Sirius nodded. "The way I figure it, we don't have to wait for that. More; we _shouldn't _wait for that. He'll be easier to defeat before he gets his body back. Just strike as soon as the Portkey delivers you to the graveyard. If you can take down a Death Eater between you – which we already know you can, especially if you take them by surprise – you can seize whatever it is that contains Voldemort's deformed body and bring it to me in the Department of Mysteries. Then we can just sling it through the Veil and the problem should be solved for good."

"That sounds... very easy." Hermione frowned, not sure she liked how casually Sirius was treating something so serious.

"Too easy." Harry nodded at her, his eyes showing his agreement with her assessment of the situation. "We're assuming that the plan will be the same here – but we know that plan didn't work. Shouldn't we assume that he _also_ knows that? Which... well, if he does, why would he do the exact same thing again?"

Draco nodded. In all the excitement of working together on such a project, he seemed to have mostly forgotten that he was supposed to dislike Harry. "Yeah, if he just wants Potter, then the knowledge of what went wrong before might drive him to do things differently this time. Although... there's still Dad's theory about the dual function of the Triwizard Cup Portkey; if it's true, he might not want to change the plan."

"It's hard to think how else he might be planning to get Harry for the ritual." True to form, Hermione had been turning this over in her mind for some time. "I mean, if it didn't matter when or how, he'd have done it by now. We should definitely expect things to go wrong, but I think the Third Task still matters."

Harry had a fierce look in his eyes. "We'll be ready," he said. "We both know what we have to do."

_Stay together. Stay alert. Take the enemy by surprise. _Hermione ran through the mantra in her head and nodded decisively. "I won't say we're ready because I don't want to tempt fate. But I think we're as prepared as we can be."

"Good, then." Professor Dumbledore looked more tired than anything else, even with his attempt at a smile. "I will speak to both of you the night before the Task. If all goes as we expect – and even if not – you will have important parts to play." He sighed. "And I can only hope that, whatever happens, we will none of us find cause to regret it."

And on this less than encouraging note, the meeting came to an end.

* * *

Weeks passed without even the mention of a sixth Horcrux, and Hermione began to despair of it ever being found. Not that it _really_ mattered all that much to the plan she and Harry had made. They still intended to prevent the resurrection of Voldemort when the opportunity arose, but it would have been nice to know for sure that he was gone forever. Hermione had never been one to waste pity on her enemies, and she was not ashamed of her bloodthirsty attitude. They were fighting _Voldemort_, for goodness' sake. This war would only be over when he was destroyed and the ashes scattered.

Another thing that worried her was Harry. Never the most outgoing or forthcoming person, he had withdrawn even further into himself, sometimes barely talking at all. When he didn't think she was looking, he would sometimes watch her with sad almost yearning eyes. And he wouldn't tell her why! When she asked, he always insisted that there was nothing wrong with him, except for nerves about the Third Task – now looming ominously on the calendar's horizon – and fear of failing when they faced Voldemort. These were reasonable enough replies, of course, but she was sure that they weren't the whole truth.

And then there was the fact that she really _was_ nervous about the coming Task and the encounter with Voldemort and the Death Eaters...

"Hermione." She didn't look up. It was Draco, probably come to scold her about not sleeping enough or something. "You're vibrating." The worry in his voice was undercut with amusement, and it was this that made her look up and meet his eyes.

"I am _not_." She didn't quite manage to smother every hint of the smile his presence brought to her face.

"You're winding yourself up about something. I could see that from the other side of the room." He perched on the arm of her chair and reached down to take her hand in his. "Tell me about it. I doubt I'll be able to solve the problem, but maybe talking about it will help."

Hermione looked down at their intertwined fingers, her involuntary smile widening a little. After a moment of simply enjoying being close to him, she spoke. "I'm worried about Harry." As she said the words she realised the truth of them; she was concerned about some things and outright terrified of others, but most of all she was worried about her friend.

"Not for yourself?" Draco rubbed his thumb gently across the back of her hand in a way that he probably thought was soothing but was actually anything but. She forced herself to concentrate on his words, frowning slightly. He laughed. "I mean – the Third Task and all... that's dangerous for you too."

"Oh, yes, I know." Hermione waved her free hand in an expressive gesture of dismissal. "But that's not what I meant. It's the..." She looked around warily and lowered her voice. "The _Horcrux_ thing. I know that the Headmaster has been telling Harry things that he hasn't told the rest of us, and I think that it's those things that have him scared half out of his wits. He pretends he's okay, Draco, but he's not. I know he's not. There's just... if he won't tell me what's wrong then I can't help him, even though I want to."

"That's just it." Draco sighed and pulled a face. "If he won't tell you then he doesn't want you to help. I know you don't like hearing this sort of thing, but maybe there's nothing you _can_ do. He's your friend, too; he cares enough about you that he doesn't want you to beat your head against a brick wall trying to solve a problem that can't be solved. Just..." He paused for a moment to think. "Give him help if he asks for it, and otherwise just pretend he's telling the truth and everything's okay."

"But I know it's not!" Hermione wasn't sure that Draco really understood how she worked. She cared about Harry, and she couldn't just... switch that off to make herself feel better.

"I know. But for whatever reason he wants to pretend it is. So you can help him by not making him think about his problem that he doesn't want to think about." He squeezed her hand. "I know it's hard, but sometimes the best thing you can do is believe someone when they say they don't need your help."

"Yeah, I get that." It wasn't satisfying, even though she knew it was true. Perhaps _especially_ because she knew that. "I'm – I'll try." She hesitated, but then the words exploded out of her. "I'm just so afraid, Draco. The way he looks sometimes, I almost think that he's going to..." She couldn't quite bring herself to say it out loud.

"Maybe he's just being his normal pessimistic Slytherin self." Draco spoke brightly, but Hermione could tell that he didn't believe what he was saying. Everyone offered false comfort, it seemed. She just didn't know if she could do the same.

After a long moment of soul-searching, she let out a deep sigh. "Yeah. Maybe." Her fingers tightened around Draco's, seeking comfort from him. He shifted his weight until he slid down from the arm and landed next to her in the seat of the chair, then pressed a gentle kiss to her cheek. "Is this chair big enough for both of us?" she asked, but she was laughing under her breath as she said it, and happily moved over to make room for him.

"See, it's fine." Draco sounded just a little smug. "Though... do let me know if you need some space." She could feel his breath in her ear and his body pressed up against hers; _space_ was the last thing on her mind.

"I think I'll be okay." Hermione looked sideways at him, reflecting on how close his face was to hers. "It'd be better if we weren't in the common room," she added, laughing rather huskily when she saw a pale pink blush spread across his cheeks.

He growled slightly under his breath, a sound that sent shivers down her spine. "You are a very cruel woman."

"I know." She gave a mock sigh. "I think it's your bad influence."

"_My_ influence?" Draco looked affronted, but she knew better than to take that seriously.

"Yeah. Everyone agrees that you're a bad influence on me, don't they?" She snorted. "I mean, I should be writing an essay, or maybe preparing for the Third Task..." Her words trailed off, and she grimaced. There was no escaping it. Even the most pleasant thoughts brought her mind back to what she was trying to forget.

"Hermione?" The sharp worry in Draco's voice made her wonder how terrible her expression must be.

"I'm okay." Hopefully if she said it often enough, that would make it true. "It's just that the Task is too close now. I can't not dwell on it and... well, and all the other things." She took a deep steadying breath. "I keep trying but it doesn't work."

"Ah." Draco spent a long moment simply looking at her in silence, his face almost entirely unreadable. "I suppose it really _is_ a shame that we're in the common room, isn't it?" His tone was only very slightly suggestive, really, but it was very obvious what he meant. He definitely _could_ take her mind off her problems and fears, for a while at least – but not here, not in front of so many people. Her cheeks felt hot all of a sudden, and she was sure she must look like a tomato. She was keenly aware of him sitting next to her, of how very close he was. And, just to make it even worse, she knew exactly what he was thinking about.

"Such a shame." It was supposed to sound dismissive, or at least cool and collected, but her traitorous voice cracked as she spoke. He laughed, soft and low, and she somehow felt it all throughout her body. She fidgeted in her seat and tried to glare at him, but for some reason it didn't seem to be working. "So who's the evil one now?"

He smirked. "I can keep this up all evening, you know."

"Oh, can you really?" Hermione could only snort at this. "I understand that a lot of men make such promises, only for..." She made a demonstrative hand gesture and flashed him a grin.

"I stand by what I said before." Draco smiled ruefully. "You are a very cruel woman." He managed to get out of the chair without losing his grip on her hand, then stood in front of her still holding it. "You know, I think we should go have a talk with Severus."

"Really? Why?" It seemed a remarkably awkward segue from what they'd been... _oh_. She put on a stern expression. "Are we actually going to get to his office?"

He looked rather sheepish. "Maybe? But... uh, probably not."

She laughed. "Alright, then. Let's go."

* * *

Late that evening, when she finally returned to the dorm, she found Lavender sitting on her bed, waiting for her. She didn't get to the point immediately, just remarked, "Only a week until the Third Task, now."

"Yes." Hermione took off her cold weather cloak and laid it over the back of her chair. "I'm kind of scared, but I think it'll be okay."

"Draco managed to reassure you, then." Lavender smirked. "I thought it was better for him to try it."

Her voice was light, but Hermione could hear the undercurrent of insecurity through the good humour. "Yeah, well, there are some things I don't think you'd want to do, even if they do cheer me up." She sat down next to her friend, gently nudging her knee against the other girl's leg. "It's okay, Lavender, I'm still your friend. I'm glad that I got the chance to be, you know?"

Lavender smiled. "Yeah, I know. But I was still like... is she just pretending to be my friend because that's what she's been told she has to do? So as to avoid suspicion and all that." She sighed. "I didn't think I was the jealous type. It's just... really silly."

"It isn't," Hermione said, firmly. "It's natural. If anything about this situation could be called natural, that is. I suppose I've just been terrible company lately because I'm worried about the Task, and about Voldemort and Harry. When it's all finally over and done with, things will go back to normal, or as normal as they can be here at Hogwarts."

Lavender laughed. "I shall hold you to that."

Hermione smiled, but it didn't quite reach her eyes. She made no verbal reply, only thought: _if only saying the words was enough to make them true._


	30. Put On Your War Paint

**Author's Notes:** The end of this chapter is probably the worst cliff-hanger in the entire story. I'm sorry about that; my only defence is that it had to be this way. Fear not, gentle reader; I will endeavour to update again tomorrow.

* * *

**30\. Put On Your War Paint**

"Oh, God, I can't do this." There was only an hour or so to go before the long-awaited Third Task was to begin, and Hermione could feel herself falling apart. She looked up at Harry, her eyes sharp and almost accusing. "Why did you ever make me think that I could?"

Harry laughed. "Which of us is in the lead, again?" He didn't even sound as if he minded.

"I'm not talking about the Task." A muscle worked in her jaw as she stared at him, imploring him to understand – as much as he was able, given that all of his previous encounters with Voldemort had been wiped away with the old timeline. _She_ at least had battled the Death Eaters at the Ministry, which had been more than terrifying enough. "After the Task, after we take the Cup... I mean, why did I ever think I could do such a thing? Fight _Voldemort_?"

"Are you a Gryffindor or not?" Harry tossed his head back and snorted, but then he looked at her more closely and seemed to regret his flippancy. "Oh, Hermione." He knelt down in front of her chair and took her hands in his. "We'll be fine. _You_ will be fine. I know it seems like a stupid thing to do, but he's weak right now. He's not even really alive. And we know what he's planning, so it's not even like we'll be taken by surprise."

Touched by his obvious concern, she blinked away the tears that were threatening to form. "I hope you're right." Nothing was ever as simple as it ought to be when Harry Potter was concerned, and she doubted a timeline shift had changed that.

"Yeah, I s'pose it's no good tempting fate, right?" Harry released her hands and stood up. "Still, by this evening..." He sighed and looked away, worrying at his lower lip with his teeth.

"Harry?" Hermione couldn't just sit there and pretend nothing was wrong. "By this evening what?"

"Well, by this evening it will all be over. You'll... we'll know one way or the other. If all goes according to our plans, _he'll_ be gone. Forever."

She didn't think that was what he'd been about to say before, and she was about to call him on it when she remembered what Draco had said. What was the point in arguing about it? Their plan was hardly safe or foolproof, and by evening one or other of them might be dead or grievously injured. Wasn't that enough to explain any abstraction or melancholy on either of their parts?

"Yeah. If it goes according to plan..."

Harry gave an almost Sirius-like bark of laughter. "I know. But there's no point in dwelling on what could go wrong. If anything does happen it'll probably be something neither of us would ever have expected."

And, as it turned out, Harry was exactly right.

Their little conference was not exactly in a private place, but since they were sitting at the furthest end of the Slytherin stands, they were far away from most of the others who had come down to the Quidditch pitch early. She sat within sight of the hedge maze that would house the Third Task, which appeared to be exactly as Hermione remembered it. Honestly, she found that a little disappointing. After the exciting differences with the first two Tasks, why was this one unaltered? Was the Final Task of every Triwizard Tournament the same? The books she'd read had been frustratingly reticent on the subject. A few impressive images of fighting monstrous creatures and solving fiendish puzzles did _not_ count as sufficient information.

It was at this point, while she was staring moodily at the hedges and wishing she knew what was going to happen, that they were interrupted by a messenger. A boy from one of the lower years approached them; he'd clearly been pressed into service and seemed keen to say his piece as quickly as possible and get back to whatever he'd been doing.

"Auror Shacklebolt told me to come and find you." He looked first at Harry and then at Hermione. "Both of you, I mean. I don't know what he wants you to do or anything, but he's waiting over near the judges' bench. Oh, and Crouch – the one who looks like he swallowed too much cough potion – is with him."

Harry chuckled at this description of the older Barty Crouch, who was apparently still committed to helping judge the Tournament, even though the scandal surrounding his son's actions had yet to die down. Hermione shook her head. "Okay, thanks for letting us know." She elbowed Harry in the ribs. "We'd better go and see what they want, right?" It seemed odd, so close to the Task, that anyone would want to talk to them. What was there to say now, aside from 'good luck'?

"Right. We should." Harry raised a questioning eyebrow, and she got the impression that he was thinking along the same lines as she was. And indeed, after the messenger ran away to do whatever he'd been doing before the interruption, Harry turned to her and said, "You were suspicious of Shacklebolt for a while, weren't you?"

She nodded. "I was." It seemed like such a long time ago now. "Mostly because he always seemed to have a convenient excuse to be around. And then there was the flask at the Slug Club meeting – but that turned out to be brandy after all."

"What was that?" Harry indicated that they should start walking while she explained, which honestly didn't take much time; it was a simple enough story, after all. It wasn't really interesting enough to mention, in her opinion, though Harry didn't seem to agree. "There could've been a second flask, you know." The tone of his voice would have been more appropriate for talking about the weather.

"So you think I might have really caught him drinking Polyjuice, but he was prepared for it?"

"Well, it's possible, at least." Harry shrugged. "If I were a spy infiltrating a party under Polyjuice, that's what I'd do. Have a dummy flask." He pulled a face. "I suppose there's nothing to do but be wary, though." It occurred to Hermione that they could've just _not gone_, but as they were now within sight of Kingsley and Crouch Snr., it was a little bit late for such considerations.

"I don't think Voldemort knows that we know what's going on."

"I think he must suspect by now." Harry waved to Kingsley, who returned the gesture cheerfully enough. Crouch, who stood beside him, seemed even more reserved than usual. Compared to the Auror he was a rigid colourless shadow, lurking at the edges of a scene rather than being a part of it. "Or else he's paranoid about it all going wrong, but isn't quite sure how it might."

"That'd be understandable." She spoke quietly, out of one corner of her mouth, lest she be overheard by the people waiting for them at the judges' stand. There was no more time for private conversation, at least not now. "Auror Shacklebolt." He looked much as ever he had, and she still found it hard to believe that he might possibly be a traitor in disguise. "You wanted to talk to us about something?"

"I didn't." Kingsley nodded towards Crouch. "He said he had something he wanted to say to the Hogwarts Champions, so I snagged a passing first year and asked him if he'd go find you." He smiled at the Department Head, who continued to look sour and disapproving. "See, it was simple enough."

"Yes, apparently so." Crouch seemed more inclined to glower than smile. "Thank you, Kingsley, that was most obliging of you." The words held a faint suggestion of clenched teeth, but Shacklebolt smiled beatifically and didn't appear to notice. "Well. It is fortunate that I was able to catch you before you set foot in the maze for the Third Task."

There was something not entirely pleasant about the way he spoke, and Hermione exchanged uneasy glances with Harry. It _couldn't_ be Crouch, surely, not with how affected he'd been by the discovery of his son... and yet she felt strangely afraid. Rather than show it, she said only, "Yes, sir?" She was rather proud of herself for keeping her voice even and just slightly curious.

"Indeed." Crouch wasn't frowning any more. Hermione wished that she could call it an improvement. "You have been a credit to the British magical education system all throughout this Tournament, both of you."

"It's very kind of you to say so, sir." Hermione already knew that Harry would be no help in providing insincere stock responses; she would have to take on that responsibility herself. "Though the Tournament is far from over yet."

"That is very true." Crouch's eyes flicked towards the hedge maze and then back to the two Champions. "Which is why it is fortunate that I have caught you now." The repetition of that turn of phrase – _catch you, caught you_ – did nothing to set Hermione's mind at ease. What was he up to? Why had he wanted them to come here? She wanted to know, and yet she dreaded finding out.

Harry, who was fairly bursting with impatience and frustration, snapped. "What did you want to say to us, Mr. Crouch? We ought to be preparing for the Task, not standing here while you tell us nothing at all."

Crouch laughed. It was not a nice sound; in fact, Hermione thought that it seemed almost familiar, but couldn't quite place it. She didn't have time to think for very long, though, because soon enough Crouch was speaking again. "Well. How impolite of you, Mr. Potter. I had been worried that our plans for you were too harsh, but it is so very hard to feel sorry for someone who has yet to master even basic courtesy. Why, I hardly feel guilty at all!"

Almost unconsciously, Harry and Hermione moved closer together.

Kingsley was staring at Crouch, disbelief painted across his handsome features. "What on earth is going on, Barty? What are you talking about?" It was hard to tell if he felt more incredulous or outraged at this turn of events. "What are you _doing_?"

"What my son failed to do." With those six simple words, delivered in a very matter-of-fact tone, Hermione understood exactly what was going on. They'd been outplayed. The plan was worth nothing now. Fear pooled in the pit of her stomach, accompanied by a strange fluttering of excitement. "Initially we'd planned for you to win the Tournament and take the Triwizard Cup from the maze. But this way will be much simpler."

Out of the corner of her eye, Hermione saw Kingsley draw his wand. Then a lot of things all seemed to happen at once. Crouch thrust something into Harry's hands. Kingsley turned his wand... on her, casting a spell she didn't hear and couldn't dodge in time. Crouch barked out an unintelligible word. The spell hit her and she found herself falling, grabbing at Harry as she went. The world lurched and spun around them, then went black as the air itself seemed determined to crush her to death.

Hermione had just enough time to register what had happened – _a Portkey, it must have been a Portkey_ – before the constriction suddenly vanished, colour and light returned to the world, and the ground came up to meet her. Or, at least, she landed on something not very comfortable, which after a couple of seconds she realised was actually Harry. She rolled off his body as quickly as she could, but this seemed to hurt him more than the landing had done.

"Shit, that was... ow." He clambered to his feet even as he complained, looking around warily for the attack they both knew would be coming. "I'm going to _kill_ Crouch, I swear. I didn't expect _him_ to be a traitor. What sense does that make?"

Her only reply was to shake her head; she was too busy examining her surroundings to have the time or energy for words. This was exactly where she had expected to end up, but it seemed somehow more sinister than she had imagined. This scene had played out in her nightmares for weeks now, but none of them had quite prepared her for the reality. They were standing in an old-fashioned graveyard, set behind an old Muggle church that at present sat silent and still in the fading light. Thick swirling fog, most likely magical in origin, kept them from seeing anything except the outlines of the rather Gothic-looking tombstones.

She knew that someone had to be lurking there in the shadows, waiting for them to arrive. What would be the point of all of this if there was not? And then, out of the curtain of mist came the words she had dreamed of and dreaded hearing, hissed in a voice like a children's pantomime version of the Devil.

"_Kill the spare."_

History seemed determined to repeat itself, despite all the changes that had been wrought. But she was not Cedric Diggory, and while she was confused she was not entirely unprepared for this. Before whichever Death Eater had accompanied Voldemort – for she knew that the speaker could only be _him_ – could raise their wand, she had dived sideways behind the nearest tombstone. Green light flashed behind her but didn't touch her, and by the time she rose to her feet again she had silently cast a Disillusionment Charm on herself.

Now the atmospheric concealment could work to her advantage as well as that of the enemy. The Death Eater couldn't see her, and thanks to the fog he would have no idea where she was. There had to be something she could do with an opportunity like that. If she'd been thinking properly, she realised now, she would have cast the Disillusionment Charm before Voldemort had spoken, perhaps even before he and his lackey noticed her – but there was no helping that now. They knew that she was alive and in the graveyard; she'd just have to keep them from learning exactly where she was.

With that in mind, she crept along behind the headstones and carved angels, placing her feet carefully to avoid making any noise. They would be looking for her, of course, but she wasn't about to make it easy. It occurred to her that perhaps the most intelligent thing to do would be to use the emergency Portkey that Professor Snape had given her just the night before. Alerting those better able to cope with the situation was a very sensible course of action, but she couldn't bring herself to do it.

Harry was here, and she refused to abandon him.

She ducked behind a different gravestone and from that cover squinted through the fog to catch a glimpse of Harry. He was facing off against a figure clad in dark robes, presumably the Death Eater who'd come to assist Voldemort. It wasn't Peter Pettigrew this time – the rat wasn't at liberty to help his true master, or so it would seem – but she couldn't make out who it was. She didn't think she recognised the man at all; he looked too young to have been one of Voldemort's followers before his defeat, which suggested he'd been recruited since. That was an awful thought – if someone as respected as Crouch Snr. had been a traitor all along, how many people might he have corrupted?

She didn't have time to consider this for very long. Harry was fighting as well as she could have hoped, but even as she watched she saw the Death Eater's spell open a bloody slash down his cheek. Pressing one hand to her mouth to stifle her gasp, Hermione gripped her wand and cast a spell at the back of the young man's head. Perhaps it was a cowardly thing to do, but she found it very hard to care about that. The Death Eater staggered as her spell hit, cursing and only just managing to duck Harry's next attack.

"_Bind him!" _The cold and high-pitched voice of Voldemort sounded almost desperate. _"You must take him alive for the ritual!"_

The disorienting effect of the fog made it hard for Hermione to figure out exactly where the vulnerable body of the not-yet-resurrected Dark wizard actually was. She supposed that was probably the idea, or at least part of it, but she wasn't going to let a small difficulty like that stop her. Not when destroying Voldemort would put an end to all of this before anyone else got hurt. Straining her ears for any further sound, she moved quietly and invisibly across the graveyard.

"_If you can't defeat a mere child I will have to call the others!"_

There! That was the voice again! Hermione smiled and shot flames in that direction, an action that was rewarded by the sound of shrill inhuman screeching. The foul stench of burning flesh filled her nostrils, but since it was proof that she'd injured Voldemort she didn't really mind it. All she needed now was another spell, one that she could use to finish the monster once and for all. Would a Blasting Curse be good enough? She already knew that she could cast _that_ non-verbally.

"_Enough, Reynolds! Leave the boy! Present me your arm; I must call my followers before all is lost!"_

Hermione swallowed hard. No! She couldn't let that happen! One Death Eater was manageable, but if all of them appeared at once there would be no hope of Harry escaping them. Gritting her teeth and closing her eyes, she pointed her wand towards the voice and thought the incantation as hard as she could. Light shot from the end of her wand, searing across her closed eyelids, and she heard an agonised scream as it hit its target.

A human scream.

Still worse than the realisation of what she'd done was that the sound simply wouldn't stop. The young Death Eater's screams echoed through the graveyard, and she stood sick and frozen, unable to do anything but listen. There was no telling how long she might have remained like that if Harry had not gripped her by the shoulders and shaken her forcibly from her stupor.

She blinked. "How did you–?"

"I saw where the spell came from and followed it back to you. Besides, you're only Disillusioned, not invisible." He spoke so quietly and so quickly that in her dazed state she could barely grasp his meaning at all. "You-Know-Who is using Reynolds' Dark Mark to call the other Death Eaters. They'll answer the call soon enough, and then they'll all be here."

"Reynolds?" The word was no louder than a breath. There was blood and... other things soaking the front of Harry's robes, and she didn't really want to know what she'd done. Even if, in her heart, she already did.

"He took a – what was that, a Blasting Curse? – well, it hit him full in the back. It was a good shot." Harry looked torn between admiration and disgust. "The Dark Lord didn't even care. He just... picked up Reynolds' wand somehow and pressed it to his Dark Mark to call the others."

Hermione pressed both hands to her mouth, but the strangled sob still managed to escape. "I killed him." Her voice was a broken whisper.

"Good." Harry's grip on her shoulders tightened, and his jaw tightened with a resolve that cut across her horror. "Hermione. Listen to me. You had to do it. You might have to kill more of them to get out of here alive."

She put her hand into her pocket and felt for the small paperweight Professor Snape had given her. "I have a Portkey. We need to get out of here now, and tell the others what's gone wrong." Her voice shook, but there was no helping that. "Before it's too late."

Harry let go of her shoulders almost instantly and took a large step back away from her. "It's already too late," he said, ominously. "And I can't. There's something I have to do here. _You_ go."

"Something you have to do... what?" Hermione snarled. "Help resurrect Voldemort? _Die_?"

"How very clever of you to get that." He smiled, but the look in his eyes struck terror into her soul.

"Harry, for _fuck's_ sake!" Her voice was too high-pitched and she barely understood what she was saying. Nothing registered except the look on Harry's face – determined, resigned, almost mocking her – and the frantic pounding of her own heart.

"I'm sorry, Hermione," he said, and he ran off into the fog.

What was she supposed to do? Go back without him? How _could_ she leave Harry behind, especially in this ridiculously fatalistic mood? Knowing now that he intended to die – though she had no idea how or why he might think it necessary – how could she do anything but try to save him?

_You always were your own worst enemy, Harry._

Before she could take more than a single step in pursuit of her friend, a series of pops echoed through the air, heralding the arrival of the rest of the Death Eaters. Hermione ran for the cover of a large granite tomb and crouched behind it, looking out at the strange assembly. Reynolds was still screaming – until, suddenly, there was a flash of green light and everything went silent.

"_Thank you, Rowle." _The cold voice of Voldemort made her miss the sound of Reynolds' tortured screams. _"But now I will need another to stand in his place for the ritual. I am sure any of you would do me this service, however."_

Rather inanely, Hermione wondered if Voldemort had a sense of humour.

"I... but of course, my lord." The man sounded reluctant and more than a little nauseous, which hardly surprised Hermione at all, given what she knew. Not that she wanted the ritual to happen at all. She'd have to get to Harry and get them both out of there as quickly as possible.

To the gathered Death Eaters, she was nothing more than a strangely shifting shadow, a trick of the light. Some of them looked in her direction as she moved past, but they never looked twice. Of course, perhaps it was simply that the drama unfolding in front of them was too absorbing. They all seemed to be watching the unfortunate Rowle with barely concealed glee, waiting to see what would become of him now that he'd unwittingly volunteered to take Reynolds' place.

"_Enough!"_ Evidently Voldemort was not impressed by this. _"Rowle will serve. The rest of you: find the girl. She came here with Potter, and it was she who wounded Reynolds. Find her, so she too may witness my glorious rebirth!"_

For a moment, Hermione stood frozen once again. Then she shook her head. They couldn't see her easily with the Disillusionment Charm, but – as Harry had reminded her – she was not invisible. If they exerted themselves even a little, they'd be able to find her. The logical course of action, therefore, was to take the Portkey back to Hogwarts. But... could she do that? Leave Harry to his fate and save herself? She shook her head. _No_. If he didn't want to leave the graveyard, she'd have to take him with her by force.

But first she'd have to evade capture.

There were rather a lot of them, but in a way that worked to her advantage. Sending that many people to blunder through the fog in search of someone who was very well camouflaged – and, more to the point, constantly moving – was a poor strategy; they distracted one another more than they helped. In the end, one of them called back:

"I don't think there's anyone here."

Before Voldemort could make any reply to this, she heard Harry say: "She had a Portkey of her own. She probably left before the rest of you arrived."

"_We must move quickly, then."_ The urgency in Voldemort's voice set her nerves on edge, even though he was calling the Death Eaters off the search. _"Proceed with the ritual!"_

It was at this point that Hermione, now able to think about something other than avoiding the Death Eaters, noticed that Harry had been caught and tied to one of the gravestones. Her heart sank. All eyes were on him; there was no way she'd be able to get to him and whisk him away before the ritual, which meant that she would have to watch the resurrection of Voldemort and hope there'd be a chance to save Harry afterwards.

Or else... she could leave. Get Sirius and Professor Snape, the Headmaster and Kingsley – if he'd managed to subdue Crouch Snr. – and raise an army to storm the graveyard. That would be the sensible thing to do. Wouldn't it? Yes – except that it would take time, time that Harry didn't have. The ritual would be quick, since Voldemort had commanded that it be so, and then her friend would die. There was no way she'd be able to organise help that fast.

_It's all down to me._

She crept closer and watched with her heart lodged in her throat as the Death Eater Rowle placed the singed and ragged bundle into the cauldron. In a voice that shook only very slightly he committed blood and bone and finally his own flesh to the resurrection of his Lord. He went very white at the last, but he did not falter; the ritual knife severed his hand neatly and the spell was completed. Under other, less dire circumstances, Hermione might have found it all rather fascinating. As it was, the sight of Harry bound and helpless reminded her of the stakes.

And then, with the ritual completed, smoke and light rose from the cauldron, followed by the newly-created physical form of Voldemort.

It was uglier than her Harry had ever managed to describe, this malformed creature, and it surprised Hermione a little that none of the Death Eaters flinched or looked away. Perhaps they were too afraid; this was Lord Voldemort, as cruel as he was powerful, and after fifteen years spent dead he would hardly be in a reasonable frame of mind. If he hadn't been keen to get to the next stage of his plan, he might well have celebrated his return by torturing his own followers. She couldn't imagine that he would spare them for any other reason, not considering his first words on addressing the crowd.

"So, you have all come scurrying back to the fold." He spoke as if he sneered, though his face was not capable of the expression. "I might ask where you have all been these last fifteen years, but I do not have time to hear your lies." A pale claw-like hand gestured towards Harry. "Bring the boy before me."

Hermione felt her chest tighten. This was it. He would force Harry to duel him – and in the chaos that followed she'd be able to seize Harry and activate the Portkey. No one was even looking in her direction now. She moved closer to Voldemort and Harry, too focused to be afraid.

"Harry Potter." There was a twisted satisfaction in that cold voice, a savage sort of gloating. This was the first time they'd come face to face, Hermione realised suddenly. All of the dramatic build-up to this moment had happened in Voldemort's head, but Harry hadn't even known he was supposed to be the madman's nemesis until a few months ago. No wonder he didn't look as scared as he might have been. Although... did he fear death? Or did he actually _want_ to...?

No. Hermione refused to finish that sentence, even inside her own head.

"Do you know of the Prophecy, Harry Potter?" Even with his desire for speed, Voldemort couldn't resist the opportunity to make a speech, it seemed. "For that is why you are here. It was predicted that you would have the power to defeat me. And that is why you must die."

Harry's hand slipped into his pocket, but he didn't draw his wand. "I know that you tried to kill me as a baby. And failed." The fog seemed to thicken again, and to Hermione it looked almost as though there were two Harrys standing before Voldemort. "You couldn't kill a _baby_. And these idiots still follow you." He laughed, the sound filling the graveyard, echoing in stereo.

"You dare to mock me, boy? Your father _begged me on his knees_ for mercy!" The Dark Lord hissed the last word in his anger.

"That's a lie!" Was that even Harry's voice? It sounded... wrong.

"Believe what you want. He begged for his life, but I struck him down regardless." Voldemort shook his head and levelled his wand at Harry. "And now I will do the same to you." Hermione stared at the tableau, horrified at this turn of events. He was supposed to duel Harry! That was what had happened before! A treacherous voice in her mind added: _And look at how that worked out for him. _Of course he wouldn't duel Harry. That was the point, wasn't it? He'd learned from his mistakes.

"Goodbye, Harry Potter."

Harry spread his arms wide, and Hermione thought she saw something drop from his hand and hit the floor. He stood alone against Voldemort, and even though she knew what was going to happen there was nothing she could do to stop it.

"_Avada Kedavra!"_

Green light flashed across the graveyard. Harry didn't even try to duck or dodge; he almost seemed to embrace the spell as it sped towards him. And then it hit, and Hermione watched in horror as her friend staggered backwards and slumped to the ground.


	31. A Sky No Longer Blue

**Author's Notes:** And now we come to the crunch. Honestly, I feel like I could have been more ruthless in this story than I actually was, but this is how things came out in the end. If anything still doesn't make sense to you, there is still one more chapter to go. I will try to get that posted tomorrow, if only so that I can keep to my initial projection of finishing this story by the end of April.

* * *

**31\. A Sky No Longer Blue**

Hermione couldn't scream. Her mouth opened and closed uselessly, but the horrific sight before her had driven all the air from her lungs.

He couldn't be dead. Not Harry. It had to be some trick of the light or... or something. She shut her eyes tightly and shook her head. No. It wasn't true. It couldn't be. She refused to believe it, because it wasn't true. If he… if it had worked, shouldn't Voldemort be laughing?

She forced her eyes open and looked, breathing shallow through trembling lips. The Death Eaters stood in the same circle as before, seemingly frozen to the spot; they made no move to celebrate, or indeed to do anything. Voldemort had staggered back a few paces and seemed to be shielding his face with one hand. But, despite the incongruity of these reactions, her traitorous eyes sought out the truth, and found it. A surprisingly small pile of robes lay a few feet in front of the reeling Dark wizard, pale and immobile in death.

_Death_. He was dead. She'd seen it happen. It hadn't been a trick or a nightmare. He was dead, and she hadn't been able to save him, despite her good intentions. But there was still something she _could_ do. Hermione took a deep breath and lifted her chin in stubborn resolve. She wasn't going to leave him here to be paraded around as a trophy, or... or worse. It was too late to save Harry, but she wouldn't leave his body in the hands of the enemy.

In the end, it was easy. She felt for the Portkey in her pocket, found it, and then after a moment's thought put her wand away. There were no spells that could help her with this, and she'd need her other hand free. Then, her fingers clenched tightly around the little paperweight, she slipped unseen towards the crowd of Death Eaters. Once she reached the point of no return she paused, swallowed heavily – and then she began to run towards Harry.

If the Death Eaters hadn't been distracted by the sudden weakness shown by their leader, she doubted that she would ever have made it through their ranks. As it was, she had her hand fastened around his limp and lifeless wrist before anyone even noticed a blurred shadow moving near them. And by the time anyone could collect themselves enough to cast a spell at her, she had already murmured _"Sanctum"_ – and disappeared into thin air.

The silence was oppressive and heavy, and for an instant she was afraid that it would suffocate her. Then sound and vision returned along with the air as she practically landed in Professor Snape's lap, before overbalancing and falling hard onto the splintered wooden floor of the stands. A chorus of gasps and screams erupted around her, and she realised that Harry's body had landed next to her – and that this was the only thing the other people could see. For her part, she didn't want to look at him. She knew he was there, but she couldn't bear the sight of him, of her own failure. With a faint sob, she buried her head in her hands.

"Hermione?"

Draco's voice cut through the rumbling murmurs of the crowd and the fog inside her own head. He crouched down beside her and laid a gentle hand on her shoulder; it was only the comfort of his touch that gave her the strength to draw her wand and cancel the Disillusionment Charm. Another ripple of surprise passed through their unwitting audience, turning to shock as she all but threw herself into Draco's arms and began to cry. It was reaction and not relief – she already knew that this was far from over.

"Hermione... what is it? What's happened?" He sounded scared, and she couldn't blame him. She was terrified herself.

"Harry's dead." The words tried to choke her on the way out. "And... and Voldemort is alive" – there was a collective gasp from those around them – "and… he's back, and the Death Eaters are coming here, and Harry's dead and I couldn't save him, and I... I killed a man, or good as killed him..."

"Miss Granger." She looked up and saw Professor Snape standing over her. His expression was not unsympathetic, but his stance and his drawn wand showed that he was ready for action. "You just said that Voldemort was alive and returning to power. He will come here, and you know it. So _get up._ Make ready to fight, because we will have to."

For a moment she glared back at him with reddened eyes, anger and pain written all over her face. Then she swallowed heavily and nodded. Without looking at Harry, who still lay where he had fallen, she climbed slowly to her feet and stared out across what had once been the Quidditch pitch. The maze would not be used tonight, and perhaps it never would be, depending on what happened over the next few hours.

"Crouch!" The name slipped out in tones of outrage as she laid eyes on the traitor, who sat blithely on the judges' panel as if nothing had happened. Her stomach plunged violently downward as she realised that, if he was still free and apparently uninjured, he must have managed to dispose of Kingsley somehow. "He attacked us and sent us to the graveyard!"

"Crouch did? But I thought he was in prison?" Sirius had rolled up the sleeves of his casual robes and seemed more than ready to fight.

"Crouch _Senior_, I mean." Hermione nodded in the man's direction. "I think he must have knocked out or... or maybe even killed Kingsley Shacklebolt, who was only trying to help Harry and me. And he _did_ help us. I'd have been left behind here if not for him." Though she had to wonder how helpful that had really been, in the end. If she'd been left behind, she might have been able to raise the alarm – or Crouch might have killed her, which would have done no one any good. Perhaps Kingsley _had_ done the right thing, after all.

"Barty Crouch attacked Kingsley and delivered you and Potter to Voldemort?" Professor Snape sounded incredulous, but his disbelief gave way quickly in the face of her sharp-eyed glare. "Right. Let me just..." He closed his eyes for a moment, and when he opened them a large white four-limbed creature erupted from the end of his wand and streaked away across the field. "I've sent a message to Albus. He'll make sure the others are aware. Nothing like finding out that one of your supposed allies is a traitor right in the middle of a battle."

He spoke from – doubtless bitter – experience, she could tell that much, but there was no time to hear the story now. "Right. Good. And everyone here will be on their guard against him, too." She exchanged a look and a nod with Draco, whose expression was at once eerily reminiscent of the Malfoy who had once never existed, and nothing like him at all. This Draco – _her_ Draco – had the same cruelty in him, she realised, hidden deep beneath the surface, out of sight. It was kept under regulation, only to be unleashed against the enemies of all that was right and good, but it was still there.

Hermione shook her head. Did it really matter? She couldn't say she felt particularly kindly towards the Death Eaters herself right now.

She opened her mouth to tell Professor Snape that she was ready to go, but before she could get the words out, the whole pitch was shaken by the tremors of an explosion. Flames rose from the direction of the hedge maze, and a flare of green light burst into the air. For one crazy moment Hermione wondered if one of the other Champions was sending up sparks – though the Task hadn't started yet, had it? – but then she saw that the light had taken a chillingly familiar shape.

The Dark Mark hung in the air over the Quidditch pitch. Death Eaters had come to Hogwarts.

Hermione counted four seconds of stunned silence before the screams began. She rolled her eyes – really, was that going to help? – and reached out to squeeze Draco's hand for what she refused to believe might be the last time. "We're going to be okay," she said, and her voice didn't even shake all that much.

"Alright, then." He returned the pressure, his thumb stroking the back of her hand gently. "You've got a plan, haven't you?"

"Yes. I think..." She looked up at the others. "We follow a short way behind Sirius and Professor Snape, and pick off their attackers if we can. They've got to get to Voldemort and put the bastard down for good."

"Language, Miss Granger." Professor Snape's lips twitched slightly, but the next moment he was abruptly businesslike again. "But you are right, and it is a sensible idea. We should go."

To say that the pitch had become a battlefield would be overstating the degree of organisation on the part of the defenders. It was more like a riot than a battle; the crowd had descended into chaos, and it was impossible to tell who was where and what was going on. Hermione tore her eyes away from this discouraging sight and nodded to Snape, who had never looked less like a teacher.

"We'll be Disillusioned, of course." She tapped first Draco and then herself with her wand, ignoring his look of mock-outrage that quickly faded from view with the rest of his body. "It'll be more confusing that way. So, yes, we're ready; let's go."

And so they went, with Snape and Sirius clearly visible in front, their robes swirling out behind them like the paintings and woodcarvings of the battle wizards of old. Hermione followed, her arm pressed against Draco's so that she wouldn't lose him in the melee, and wondered if those old heroes had felt the way she did now. Scared. Angry. Lost and hurting because, whether he'd deserved it or not, she'd loved Harry. She looked back up the stands, but she couldn't see his body anymore. Her throat tightened, but she shook her head. There was no time to dwell on it. Not when every minute that passed could mean another friend or classmate dead.

Even with all the grief and anger she felt, the spells that Hermione cast into the throng of Death Eaters were meant to disable, not to harm. She didn't know what Draco was doing – and didn't really want to guess – but she remembered what it had felt like to maim another human being. It wasn't something she wanted to feel again, whatever the provocation. She would not let them drag her down to their level. She refused to grant them that victory.

Snape and Sirius worked well together, she noticed whenever she had the time to look at them. She was mostly occupied with watching the crowd for approaching Death Eaters, but there were moments when she could stop and appreciate the efficiency with which they fought and the synergy of their styles. Sirius was an aggressive caster, which didn't surprise her at all, but Snape's watchful eyes kept his boldness from becoming reckless. The Defence Professor was no slouch either; he cast silently and economically, seeming aware of everything going on around them. Hermione wondered if he had magically enhanced his senses, and whether he would teach her the spell if so.

Their progress thus far had been slow but not difficult. There were not as many Death Eaters as she had feared, and though many of the crowd had panicked, others were fighting back against the invading force. If Voldemort had thought that a school full of children would be an easy target, he had miscalculated. Despite the dire situation, Hermione had to stifle a laugh when she noticed a group of fourth year Gryffindors working together to fire Trip Jinxes at any Death Eater who passed close enough. Still, it was dangerous, and though she had yet to see any sad crumpled piles of robes, she hoped rather than believed that Voldemort's forces would spare the smaller children.

"We have to end this." She hadn't intended to say it out loud, but the sight of the Dark Mark and the horror of the masked Death Eaters loosened her tongue. Sirius and Snape were too absorbed in their fight to hear her, but Draco nodded, the tension in his jawline betraying his determination.

"Where do you suppose Voldemort would go?" Red light streaked from his wand and dropped a black robed figure who'd been attempting to flank his father. "If... if Potter's really dead..."

"He is." Hermione blinked furiously, trying to keep the tears from forming.

"Then who would he want to..." Draco frowned, but then his eyes widened suddenly. "Oh! Dumbledore!"

"The only one he ever feared..." Hermione murmured. "If he could kill the Headmaster in front of everyone here – well, he might expect them to give in."

"We wouldn't," Draco growled, his knuckles whitening as his fingers tightened on his wand.

"No. But maybe Voldemort doesn't know that." She looked around for threats, then called out to the two men. "Professor, Sirius – do you think Voldemort might try to find and defeat Professor Dumbledore?"

Snape stopped in mid-stride and Sirius nearly stumbled over him. "I would have thought that he'd know better," he said, but he looked in that direction, over towards the judges' podium.

"This is Voldemort we're talking about," Sirius put in, turning that way himself. "And besides, it would be no bad thing for us to have Albus' help."

"Indeed not." Snape nodded and gave his friend a thin-lipped smile.

They changed course, and found that most of the difficulty in this new direction was all of the panicked people running towards them. Perhaps that was a sign that they were going the right way, but it was rather hard to tell. A fog had risen over the field – reinforcing her impression that the mist in the graveyard had not been natural – and people seemed to be running _everywhere_.

Professor Dumbledore was not at the judges' stand, but the elder Crouch was. He stood on the podium, high above the crowd, observing the chaos with a grave expression. Hermione wasn't sure if this was an act, a sign that his side was losing, or simply due to his lacking the capacity for any other emotion. In any case, he was alone. The other judges were nowhere to be seen, perhaps helping to defend their students. Although... no, Karkaroff would have fled. If there was anyone who wouldn't want to face the Death Eaters, it would be the man who'd betrayed so many of their fellows to save his own skin.

"Crouch."

Sirius was glaring at the man, but Hermione laid an invisible hand on his arm. "Your job is to find Voldemort," she reminded him. "We can distract Crouch, keep him from doing any more harm."

"He might have killed an Auror, and you think you can handle him?" Sirius's eyes were wide and wild, his fear for them both obvious.

"It's my choice." She spoke quietly, but she had never been more serious or sincere. "And I've a right to make it, even if it scares you."

He laughed. "Use my own words against me, will you?" Turning to Snape, he said, "You taught this one too well, Severus."

Snape smirked. "I know. And she is right, Sirius. We have to end this however we can. I believe that she and Draco can handle themselves. Our concern should be finding Albus and bringing down Voldemort."

"I... yes, I know." Sirius still didn't look as though he liked it. He stared at the barely discernible figures of the Disillusioned students for several moments, then sighed. "You're right. Lead on, Severus." A sad little smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Draco, son. _Be careful_. I know we're Gryffindors and it doesn't come naturally. But... we _will_ see each other again. We will."

Hermione couldn't see Draco any better than his father could, but they all heard the emotion in his voice. "I'll be careful, Dad. I promise."

A few seconds of silence followed, and then Snape's hand came to rest on Sirius' back. "Come on. I believe we have a Dark Lord to fight." At that moment they saw a flash of green light from some little distance away, punctuated by a collective gasp. Snape's head jerked in that direction. "That way. That's where he'll be."

Sirius nodded, and the next moment they were gone. Hermione moved until she stood right next to Draco, so close that her shoulder brushed against his upper arm. "Do you think we should confront him?" While striking from cover would be far more sensible, she was curious about Crouch and his motivations, and this curiosity was proving very difficult to deny.

"I _just_ promised my dad that I'd be careful." It was difficult to discern from Draco's return whisper exactly how he felt about the idea. He sighed. "But you... you want to know, don't you?"

"Why he'd do this? Yes." Hermione grimaced, though she knew he couldn't see it. "I can't help it."

"If you could, you wouldn't be you." He sounded amused. "I can't deny that I'm curious, too. What if… I stay Disillusioned, while you confront him? He'll think he has the upper hand, but I'll be there – and if he attacks you I will _end_ him."

"Draco..." She felt a little uneasy.

"I love you." He had said it before, but the words had never sounded so fierce. "I won't let him hurt you."

"Don't kill him," she pleaded. "Don't do that to yourself." She remembered wounding Reynolds in the graveyard, and shivered. That had been more than bad enough, and she hadn't even meant to do it.

"I... I'll try not to, okay? Now, let's go before he moves and we lose him."

Still side by side and very close to one another, they approached the judges' podium. Hermione removed her Disillusionment Charm and called out to get the treacherous official's attention as she reached the bottom of the steps. It was exactly where she would have stood at the end of the Task to receive the prize money and the judges' accolades, had she been the one to win the Tournament.

"Crouch!" He turned, and when he saw her his eyes bulged in surprise. "What did you do with Kingsley?"

"You... but how did you...?" To see the usually poised politician reduced to stammering might have been amusing under other circumstances. She watched his confusion with some satisfaction even so, keeping her wand levelled on the man as a sensible precaution. "You should not still be alive." The words were all the more chilling for the matter-of-fact way in which he said them.

"I'd apologise," she said, almost brightly. "But I'm not sorry."

"And Potter?" His desire to know the terrible fate of her friend sat badly with her, but somehow she managed not to cry.

"I brought him back with me."

"And yet you did not bring him here." Crouch looked down at her disdainfully, and she was conscious of a faint sense of recognition. Something about the situation was familiar, though she couldn't for the life of her think what or why. "That was poorly done of you, Miss Granger, and I shall see to it that you regret your oversight."

It wasn't the words, it was his bearing. There was something about his eyes as he looked at her, as if he thought she was lower than dirt. At least his son had respected her enough to fear her interference. The older Crouch had tried to kill her simply because she was in his way – and now he'd do it to keep her from telling anyone, or perhaps just for the fun of it.

"You didn't tell me what happened to Kingsley." She showed neither her anxiety nor her confusion.

"No, I did not." Crouch smiled, but the effect was far from pleasant. "You will be joining him presently, however, so I saw no need." Her stomach lurched, seeming to take up residence in her throat. So Kingsley was dead – or at least that was what Crouch wanted her to think. He sneered down at her, and she glared back at him defiantly, flushing a little at the obvious contempt in his eyes.

The little tableau awakened something in her memory, imposing an image of the past across her perception of the present. With a gasp she realised the truth, details she had previously overlooked slotting neatly into place in her mind. The man before her wasn't Barty Crouch Snr. at all. He hadn't been for some time. And she knew now exactly who he was and what he'd done. It was horrifying, in a way, but she knew that it had to be true.

"I wouldn't count on that," she told him, shooting a spell at him that he deflected easily. "Lucius Malfoy."

She heard Draco gasp, and though she couldn't see him she could imagine the look on his face. It was Crouch's – Malfoy's – expression that interested her more, however; his shock was palpable, and she knew that her words had hit home.

"How very odd that you should know that, when no one else has ever realised it." Malfoy stared at her almost hungrily, and she began to feel rather uncomfortable. Suddenly he laughed. "Good Lord! Do you _know _what I did? You… were you unaffected by the changes I made? How can that be?"

"I have no idea myself." Hermione shook her head. "It _was_ you, then?"

"It was." Malfoy twisted Crouch's face into a grimace. "I grew tired of being a slave to the Dark Lord, forced to keep him in my home, to sacrifice my son to his whims. And so I invoked one of the oldest and most forbidden rituals of them all – and now I am his most faithful, his favourite, the one who will rule by his side. It is regrettable that my wife and son were lost to me in pursuit of this end, but..." A spasm of grief passed across his face, but then his eyes narrowed and his voice grew cold. "Bellatrix paid for what she did to my family. And now you, Mudblood filth, will pay for thwarting me and my Lord!"

He moved quickly, his wand slashing through the air – but Draco was faster. Pale light erupted from nowhere and hit Crouch's body, sending Malfoy tumbling from his raised position to land with a sickening crack on the ground below. Hermione covered her mouth with her hand and stared at where the man had stood but a moment before. She would have frozen like that, perhaps, but for Draco laying a gentle hand on her shoulder.

At first she flinched away from the contact, but then she relaxed a little, looking towards where she knew he must be with sad eyes. "Draco, I..."

"Shh. You're alright."

Her voice shook. "He's... he must be dead. Don't you think?"

"Probably." Draco sounded grim and not at all pleased with himself, which was at least somewhat reassuring.

"You... didn't listening to that disturb you?" It was hard to tell when she couldn't see him. "I mean, he was your father."

"In blood, perhaps." Draco's voice was tense and unhappy. A sigh echoed in her ear. "I'm not going to lie and act like it didn't hurt to hear it. He wanted Voldemort to win and recognise him the way he thought he deserved – so much that he didn't care that his wife was killed and his son taken away from him." There was a pause. "Sirius is my father in every way that counts, of course, but... it hurts all the same."

She reached up and squeezed the hand that still rested on her shoulder. "That's understandable. Rejection hurts no matter how many other people love you." Hermione's mind was whirring even as she tried to comfort him. Lucius Malfoy had always been a terrible person, in her view, but she'd been under the impression that he had at least cared about his family. Then again... given the grief that had shown briefly through his mask – no, Malfoy had not been indifferent to his losses, far from it.

"You're right." Draco sounded stern and resolved, and Hermione decided against sharing those thoughts with him. Now really wasn't the time for that sort of discussion, anyway. "Maybe we should go and see whether Sirius and Severus need our help. I think we'd have heard something if they'd killed Voldemort already."

"I suppose so." With a now-familiar wand movement, Hermione faded once more from view. The pressure of Draco's hand disappeared from her shoulder, but a moment later she felt him touch her hand, then intertwine his fingers with hers. Apparently he preferred wielding his wand left-handed to letting go of her. She couldn't say that she disagreed with his priorities. "Let's just... go the same way they did, right?"

"Follow the sounds of sobbing and wailing, you mean." As Draco said it, Hermione realised that he was right. She'd been too lost in her own thoughts – and before that in challenging Malfoy – to notice the way the atmosphere had changed. Something had happened, something terrible, and she found that she almost didn't want to know what it was. She'd already lost Harry. Wasn't that enough?

They slipped through the crowd like ghosts, following the path that Snape and Sirius had trod just minutes before. Around them the battle intensified, grew more chaotic and deadly as Death Eaters attacked wherever they found an opening. Hermione ducked and dodged the stray spells that flew her way, a rising sense of horror threatening to lodge in her throat and choke her. It was like nothing she had ever imagined – and, though she was a Gryffindor, she was not a warrior. She was out of her element, and the best she would hope for was that she would somehow survive.

"Breathe, Hermione." Draco could probably feel her tension through her joined hands. She tried to concentrate on his quiet breathing, to centre herself even in this terrible place, but it was far from easy.

Just then her foot hit something solid and she tripped, almost dragging Draco down with her as she fell. She lost her grip on her wand, and the Disillusionment Charm flickered and faded, leaving her visible to all. Not that she cared just then; she barely even noticed. The object her foot had struck was a body, disturbingly motionless and unfortunately familiar.

"Nadya?" Herminone reached for her wand and found it on the second attempt, though not before someone almost trod on her hand as they ran past. _"Enervate!" _As she'd feared, it did nothing. The Durmstrang Champion was not dead, but there was clearly something keeping her from waking.

"Hermione, look out!" Draco's shouted warning dragged her attention back to its proper place – but too late, for no sooner had she looked up than a spell deflected harmlessly from an invisible shield. "That was close."

She stood up and dusted herself off. "There isn't a lot I can do for her." It was true enough, but she didn't like to say it. "Thanks for... well, saving me. That was a nicely timed shield."

"I didn't." Draco sounded as puzzled as she felt at this news. "It just sort of happened on its own."

"Oh." Hermione looked around but saw no one who seemed likely to have protected her. She shrugged, not having time to think about that as well as everything else, then gently levitated the unconscious Nadya over to the nearest stands. Professor Lupin was there, protecting some of the younger children as best he could, and she greeted him briefly before setting Nadya down and disappearing once more. For a moment she thought she might have lost Draco, but then she noticed a slight distortion in the air nearby, and felt his hand slide into hers again. In spite of everything, even though she knew he couldn't see her, she smiled.

They moved off, weaving through the crowd as they headed towards the heart of the battle, where she knew they would find Voldemort – and, hopefully, Snape and Sirius, too. The idea that they might be... might not be alright was hard to shake and impossible to bear, so she was glad of the distraction provided by a sudden disturbance. Looking back, she saw a flash of bright pink hair, the light of a spell, and a Death Eater slumped abruptly to the ground not far from a rather stunned-looking Professor Lupin.

"Watch your back!" The Auror sounded very unlike her usual cheerful self. "He would've taken you out if I hadn't – "

Even from this distance, Hermione could see Professor Lupin's jaw clench. "Thank you, Miss Tonks." He made it sound more like an insult than any sort of gratitude. "Make sure you watch your own back, mind."

Hermione didn't realise that she'd stopped until Draco's grip on her hand pulled tight. She heard what she assumed was him stumbling to a halt, and then: "Come on. Tonks can take care of herself, and I'm sure Lupin can, too – when he isn't staring at her, anyway."

_Staring at her? _Not having thought of that as a possibility before, Hermione frowned a little as they continued across the field, eventually coming across a hole blasted in one of the hedge walls. "Do you think he – I mean, Voldemort – is in there?"

"Worth a try," was Draco's terse response, and so they let go of one another and climbed through the ruined hedge into the maze. The path of destruction was easy enough to trace, as more holes had been opened in the walls, presumably leading towards the centre. It was a frightening show of power, if you stopped to think about it for a moment; those hedges would have been magically reinforced against such spells, but Voldemort had forced his way through anyway.

And then they reached the centre of the maze, and Hermione realised that 'frightening show of power' didn't even begin to cover it. He was there, of course. Lord Voldemort stood on the pedestal intended for the Triwizard Cup, effortlessly fending off the attacks of a ragged and desperate Snape. The Defence teacher was still fighting, unwilling to admit defeat, though one of his arms hung unnaturally at his side, and blood ran down into his eyes from a wound she couldn't see. Sirius was nowhere to be seen.

Worst of all, though, was the prone body of Professor Dumbledore, laying crumpled on the other side of the maze's centre. From her vantage point, Hermione couldn't tell if he was alive or dead, but it was apparent that Voldemort had managed to overpower him. Despair gripped her heart. Harry was dead. Kingsley was dead. The Headmaster couldn't help them. Snape was barely managing to hold his ground. And Voldemort seemed completely unconcerned, as though fighting Snape was amusing him rather than providing any sort of challenge.

It was over. What could she or Draco do against his power, if even Dumbledore had failed?

"This ends now, Voldemort!"

Hermione startled at the voice, looking around the battlefield in search of its owner. That was... it had sounded like...

"Potter?" Draco sounded utterly incredulous, which she understood. It couldn't be him. Harry was dead.

And yet, now that she looked again, there he was, supporting an exhausted but unquestionably still living Sirius. Something silver and fluid and insubstantial flowed over Harry's arms and disappeared – the Invisibility Cloak! That explained the voice from nowhere, at least, but not how Harry had survived the Killing Curse for a second time.

Voldemort knocked Snape away with a swipe of his wand as he stared at his enemy. "You... but I killed you!"

"Looks like you did kind of a shitty job of it," Harry said, grinning. Then, before Voldemort could say or do anything, his wand was in his hand. Hermione didn't hear what spell he cast, but Voldemort shot something back, and... locked both of them in a strange golden cage effect. It could only be _Priori Incantatem._ Harry had told her about this, and of course she'd read about it in books, but it was hard not to stand and stare open-mouthed.

What would have happened if the connection had been allowed to develop, no one ever knew – for once the cage had appeared, Harry pulled out the second wand. Green light flashed across the shimmering gold, and then everything cut out altogether as Voldemort – or what had once been Voldemort – hit the ground and skidded through the damp grass and mud for a few metres.

For a few moments, silence reigned. Then all Hell broke loose.

Hermione never knew what had hit her. As if the death of Voldemort had been some sort of signal, the world around her exploded into motion and magic, spells and bodies flying about the field. No one could see her to aim at her, but that didn't protect her from being hit by a stray spell – and so, of course, that was exactly what happened. The force of it threw her to the ground, and it was with a vague sense of déjà vu that she lost consciousness.


	32. Some Other Beginning's End

**Author's Notes:** As the chapter title will tell anyone who recognises the reference, it's Time to be Closing our story. (Forgive me the terrible joke; I couldn't resist it.) But yes, this is the final chapter of _Alternate History_, the end of this "little" tale. I have tried to tie up as much as possible in these last two chapters, but I'm sure I haven't managed to resolve everything of interest to my readers. I apologise for that, and hope that the ending is satisfying nonetheless.

I would like to thank everyone who has reviewed or followed this story. Your interest and encouragement is the main reason that I managed to finish this at all. I appreciate your support, really and truly.

And finally: I dedicate this story to my friend Annette, who refuses to read WIPs but who I hope will like this when she finally sees it. I'm sorry that it took so long! And that I wouldn't shut up about it while I was writing it!

* * *

**32\. Some Other Beginning's End**

Consciousness crept back in slowly, bringing with it muted sounds and the sensation of cool sheets against her skin. Even before she was fully aware, Hermione knew that she had to be in the hospital wing; no other place in the school had quite the same feel to it. Still, she did open her eyes – if nothing else, she needed to check that they still worked – and when she did, she saw Harry sitting beside her bed. His expression betrayed his anxiety, though it melted into a smile the moment he saw she was awake.

It took some effort, but she managed to smile back. "You know, this seems familiar somehow."

He laughed, and she heard relief in the sound. "I wonder why that might be."

"I have no idea," she said, dryly, aware of both the outward familiarity of the situation and her very different feelings about it this time around. "This is... I mean, things are still the same, right? That spell didn't... do anything, did it?"

"Knocked you clean out." Harry saw her feeble attempt at a glare and held his hands up in mock surrender. "Okay, okay, I get what you mean. Everything's still the same. Except that... well, now Voldemort is dead."

It was downright strange to hear him say that aloud. She'd been thinking of Voldemort as the great enemy for so long that she found the truth hard to fathom. He was actually _gone_. Forever. "So I didn't dream that, then?" Harry looked amused and shook his head. Hermione frowned. "But you... I thought _you_ were dead."

He winced. "I was. Well, kind of."

Because that explained everything. "Kind of? What do you mean? How can anyone be _kind of_ dead?"

"It's complicated." Harry laughed ruefully and shook his head. "Which I'm sure only makes even _more_ keen to hear about it."

"You could say that." Hermione had never been one to shy away from complicated problems, after all.

"Thought so." He sighed. "It began with the idea that I might be an accidentally created Horcrux. I met Dumbledore for other meetings, not with the rest of you, and he figured out that there was a piece of the Dark Lord's soul inside me. So we had to form a plan to deal with that."

"So you really did plan to die?"

"Yeah. I did. The resurrection part was as much of a surprise to me as to you." Harry's eyes were wide as he spoke about this miracle, and Hermione could well imagine the wonder and amazement he must feel. "Before I... died, I had used the Resurrection Stone to summon my father's spirit."

"So there _were_ two of you," Hermione breathed.

Harry startled. "You could see him? I didn't realise that anyone else would be able to."

She nodded. "I could see _something_. With the fog getting in the way, I couldn't be sure what it was." Then she remembered something; a tense discussion between the Headmaster and Professor Snape. "Wait, though. The Resurrection Stone? I thought that was destroyed!"

"The _Horcrux_ was destroyed." Harry smiled slightly. "Somehow Dumbledore managed to leave the Stone intact, and extract it from the Ring."

"Oh." Hermione frowned. "Did he tell you to use it that way?"

"No. He told me that I'd know what to do with it when the time came. And I did." Harry sat in silence for a moment, and then shrugged. "I mean, no thanks to him, but whatever. That was only the start of it. Then, of course, I got hit by the Killing Curse, and I didn't expect to wake up ever again. Except that I did – and when I did, I found myself in this strange white place. It was... a manor house, I think. A house like Malfoy's, big and grand and full of rooms – except that it wasn't nearly so cold." He grinned suddenly. "Strange that the Malfoy Manor should be colder than death, don't you think?"

Hermione's only response was to snort.

"Well, anyway, I was alone in this house as far as I could tell, so I kept walking through the rooms. After a while I came to a door that was locked, and I could hear something moving behind it. I wanted to open the door, but when I tried my father appeared from nowhere and told me that I shouldn't look at it. The beast would soon be gone, and the house would be mine completely."

"Was that... what was that?" She couldn't even think of a sensible suggestion. It sounded like a surreal dream.

"My father explained that I was somewhere between life and death, and that the Killing Curse had purged the fragment of Voldemort's soul within me, the monster in the locked room. But, because he had taken some of my blood into his body, and because I was the holder of the Resurrection Stone, I could decide not to die." He paused, then shrugged. "I wish I could explain this – and of it – better, but this is as much as I know myself. I don't know why the Stone was important, or how Dumbledore knew it would be."

"It's okay. I think I follow the logic." Hermione wondered if this had ever happened before, or if Harry was once again an exception to the rule. "Well, mostly, anyway. I suppose the important thing is that you had a choice, and you chose to live."

"Yes." Harry looked away from her, out of the window of the hospital wing. "It was a difficult decision. My father was... I never knew him, and I've always wished that I could've. He wasn't anything like my mother's stories, not really. I liked him." He gave a sad little sigh. "But, in the end, I had to go back. There was too much to do in the world of the living. I knew I would have to kill Voldemort, not because I'm special or powerful, but because I'd brought a secret weapon to the fight."

"The Priori Incantatem?"

Harry nodded. "Yeah. That wand, the holly wand – it isn't mine. It never was mine. But somehow Snape managed to get hold of it for me. How, I don't know, but he did. And he told me how to trigger the cage effect, and that I should use the time it gave me to strike and finish Voldemort for good." There was irony in his voice as he added, "Obviously Snape didn't know that I was marked for death, and I didn't tell him. I just took the wand and thanked him. I was going to give it to you before we took the Cup – but Crouch derailed our plan."

"Lucius Malfoy." The name left a bitter taste in her mouth. "He wasn't Crouch at all."

"Oh." Harry frowned at this. "Malfoy – Draco, I mean – did say something about that, but he was kind of hysterical about you being injured, so I couldn't get him to tell me what had actually happened."

"Draco?" Hermione was ashamed to realise that, faced with her formerly dead friend, she'd forgotten to worry about the fate of her boyfriend. "Where is he? Is he alright?" She struggled into a sitting position and looked around, only to discover that there was a screen around her bed.

Harry laughed, softly. "Relax, he's fine. He was here not long ago, actually, but then Snape and his dad forced him to go downstairs and eat something. I think he was afraid that you'd wake up and not remember anything about this past year."

"And you weren't?"

"No." Harry shook his head and gave her a wry smile. "Because, see, after I spoke to my father and chose to live, I left the... well, the place that was like a house and started walking through the fog. And while I was there I met some people. Well, sort of." He frowned. "It's hard to explain. I met the other you, the one I knew until this summer. And I met the 'original' version of myself, even though I suppose with one thing and another he never actually existed."

"You met them?" Hermione wanted to believe this but struggled to understand how it could be so. "In the mists of... what, the afterlife? Was that... I mean, it couldn't have been real, could it? Wasn't it all just some sort of dying hallucination?"

"I think it was all in my head, yes." He grinned at her. "But why should that mean that it was not real?"

It sounded as if he was quoting someone, but she couldn't for the life of her think who. "So... what did they tell you? The others?"

"You need to stop feeling guilty." Harry gave her a meaningful nod. "That's what she said – the other you, that is . You didn't steal her life. Not on purpose. There's nothing you can do to change what happened or bring her back, and you need to stop blaming yourself for something you didn't even choose to do." He paused for a moment, looking at her as if he could make her understand through intensity alone. "That's what she told me. You need to let go. Live the best life you can, for her sake as well as your own. That's how you can make it up to her, if you feel you need to."

"Oh." Hermione thought she might cry, and she wasn't sure if it was the tragedy of her counterpart's fate or from relief that she had been forgiven. Perhaps it was both. She could be touched and relieved and grief-stricken and liberated at the same time, not having the emotional range of a teaspoon. _Ron... _she thought, but ruthlessly squashed it before those emotions could join the crowd threatening to overwhelm her. She shook her head, tried to smile, and changed the subject. "So, what did you say to yourself?"

Harry laughed. "I like the way you put that. He told me that he was impressed; I was in a position to defeat Voldemort once and for all, and I'd managed it much quicker than he had. So of course he had to admit that Slytherin would've been the better choice all along."

"He did not!" She couldn't help but snicker a little at the thought.

"Alright, yeah, I made that bit up." Harry seemed unrepentant. "The rest was true though. It was... weird. Even considering all of the other strange things that happened while I was – while I was dead. Which sounds pretty weird on its own."

"It does." Hermione smiled. "But, you know, I'm glad you're not dead any more."

He snorted. "So am I." Just then, the door to the hospital wing opened and she heard some very familiar voices. Harry froze and went pale. "I... he – the other me – told me something else. Quite forcefully, actually. Which means... there are things I really ought to do. I'd better go. And, you know. Do them."

She watched with some amusement as he moved the screen aside and walked across the hospital wing towards Draco, Sirius and Professor Snape, who had just come in. They all stared in surprise as he approached Sirius and started to say something that she couldn't hear. He wasn't allowed to finish whatever it was, though; before he could get through more than two sentences, Sirius pulled him into one of his rib-crushing bear hugs. Harry seemed to tense up a little at this, but he didn't push his godfather away.

Hermione rolled her eyes at the heartwarming scene, though she felt a telltale pricking of tears at the corners of them. "Finally."

Her reaction was not dissimilar to Professor Snape's, who had to turn away to hide either tears or a smile. Draco, on the other hand, merely snorted, then stepped past their emotional reconciliation and approached Hermione's bed. She sat up a little straighter as he came near, as much to make sure she got a good view of him as to reassure him that she was okay. He sat in the chair beside her bed and for a moment simply looked at her as if trying to reassure himself that she was real.

"You would wake up the one time I actually left the hospital wing," he said, with a cheerful pretence at exasperation. Then he reached over and squeezed her hand. Her fingers closed around his, twining them together as they had during the battle. "I'm glad you're awake, even if Potter did get to talk to you before I did."

She gave a wheezing laugh. "How sweet of you to say so." Then, more seriously: "You're not jealous?"

"No; just disappointed that I didn't get to see you wake up." He glanced over his shoulder at Sirius and Harry, who were now sitting on one of the few unused beds and talking intently. "I think I'm over being jealous of Potter. About anything."

"Good." She smiled. "Because I think I prefer that it happened this way. At least now I won't have to interrupt my time with you so I can ask Harry what it was like to be dead."

"Did he tell you about the house and the mist?" Draco asked. She nodded. "Huh. Yeah, he told us that story, too, but I didn't know what to make of it. I mean, I suppose most people believe that _something_ will happen to our souls when we die, but I don't think I've ever seen it described that way. It wasn't... well, wasn't quite what I'd always imagined." He shrugged. "Still, he's the only one of us who's ever died, so I suppose he knows more about it than I do."

"Would you want to know more?" She laughed as Draco shook his head, but then said, very seriously: "I wouldn't want to spend even a minute thinking _you_ were dead. That would be even worse." It didn't even bear thinking about.

"Worse than thinking the same of Harry, one of your best friends?" Draco seemed surprised, and she wasn't sure why he should be.

"Of course. Harry is a good friend, a very good friend, but I love _you_." Hermione said the words very simply, and found she rather liked the stunned look they brought to Draco's face. "What? I'm sure I've told you that before."

"You have." His voice sounded suspiciously choked. "It's just... I thought I'd lost you. This spell hit something near me, and then all of a sudden you were visible and on the ground. First I thought you were dead, and even when I realised that you weren't, I thought... I thought..."

She took pity on him. "I know what you must have thought." Harry had told her, after all – though she saw no need to mention that. "It's okay." Her fingers tightened around his. "We're both okay. You're alive, I'm alive, and I'm still... me."

"I know." He smiled and stroked the back of her hand with his thumb. "We were lucky." The smile wavered but didn't disappear completely.

"Other people weren't, I'm sure." Hermione wasn't a fool; she knew that during such a battle it was unlikely that everyone would have walked away, or even been carried alive to the hospital wing. And then there was that dull leaden weight in her stomach, the pang in her heart, the memory of Crouch's face twisted in Malfoy's mockery. "I... oh, no. What happened to Kingsley?"

Draco winced and shook his head. "Yeah, my – I mean, Crouch wasn't lying about that. I'm sorry."

Hermione shook her head. "I'm not... that is, I don't..." She sighed. "I didn't ever really know him, and for a lot of the year I thought he was an enemy. It's more just that... well, he got killed trying to help us, and I wish... I wish..."

Draco let go of her hand, leaned over and hugged her tightly. "I know."

For a moment they stayed like that, each taking comfort and strength from the warmth and nearness of the other. Hermione almost didn't want him to let go—ever—but the sad reality of short breath and sore ribs forced her to detach herself gently from his embrace. They looked at one another, the intensity in his eyes almost certainly making her blush, and then he coughed and settled himself once more in the chair.

"Sorry," he said, after a not entirely comfortable pause. "I didn't mean to... Did I hurt you?"

Memory made those words funnier than they had any right to be, and she had to control her inconvenient laughter before she could reply. "Not really. It was whoever cursed me in the first place who caused the pain." Seeing his doubt, she forced a straight face and patted his hand. "I'm fine, Draco, really." He smiled gratefully at this assurance. There was a short and much more companionable silence, during which Hermione worked up the courage to ask: "And... well, what about Professor Dumbledore?"

The smile vanished entirely. "That is... I mean, he was... I think that was why things seemed so bad when we reached the centre of the maze. From what I've been told, he and Fawkes – the phoenix, you know – saved Dad and Severus, but the Headmaster was killed, while Fawkes burned and was reborn." He shook his head, sadly. "It's a shame that only a phoenix can do that."

"Well, Voldemort managed something like it." Hermione knew it wasn't really the same – Voldemort and his evil rituals bore little resemblance to the renewing flame of a phoenix – but she didn't think that immortal humans could ever be a good thing. "I don't think we want to encourage that."

He laughed, the sound a little dry and stilted. "No, maybe not."

"It's hard to think of the Headmaster being gone," Hermione said, after another pause. "He seemed such a fixture of Hogwarts. More fixed than some of the actual fixtures, even." She thought of the moving stairs and the doors that opened into different rooms on different days, and despite the grim conversation she had to stifle a smile. It didn't even feel disrespectful; she couldn't imagine that the Headmaster would have minded.

"Fawkes was very distraught," Draco said, not commenting on her probably very inappropriate demeanour. "I think Hagrid has been working with him, but... if he doesn't find another human to bond with, once he's back to his adult form I suppose he'll leave."

"You'd think Hagrid would be perfect for him." It was only as she said it that she realised she believed it. Hagrid wasn't a good teacher and never would be, but he was a good _person. _Whether he really was perfect for a phoenix was for Fawkes to decide, but to her it seemed somehow fitting.

"Yeah. A real Warrior of Light, Hagrid is. Still, we can only wait and see what happens."

A noise from the doorway caused both Draco and Hermione to look in that direction. It was Tonks, complete with soft lilac hair, and after clapping Sirius on the back she crossed to sit beside a particular bed. After a few moments of craning her neck, she gave in and asked: "Who's she visiting?"

Draco laughed. "Professor Lupin, if you can believe it. The first time she was here she scolded him for getting hurt, which I thought was a bit unfair, though he didn't really seem to mind. Since then she's mostly come by to argue with him, as far as I can tell. Sort of weird, but then Tonks is pretty weird."

"Hm." Hermione thought about that for a minute. "They say that bickering can be a sign of romantic interest." She remembered her friendship with Ron and what she'd hoped would come of that. At this distance from the event, and in the presence of a boy who actually did love her, she couldn't feel too unhappy that it hadn't worked out. Though she could hope that Tonks would be more fortunate. "It's not always true," she added, as Draco was giving her a rather doubtful look.

"It's as good an explanation as any." He shrugged. "She was pretty upset about him being injured so badly, though she did say that if he hadn't been so stupid it would never have happened. But that's Tonks for you."

"Heh." There were other questions Hermione could ask, should ask, but wasn't sure she could face the answers if the news was bad. She sighed and finally forced the words out. "I... so, did anyone else – our friends, are they... alright?"

Draco nodded. "Honestly, I don't think all that many people died, though there were a lot of injuries. Apparently the 'old crowd' were prepared to deal with Voldemort, just as much as Harry was." He paused for a moment, looking down at his hands, and then fixed her with a very earnest stare. "It's all down to you, do you realise that? Without your knowledge of another timeline, none of that preparation would have happened. We'd have been taken by surprise. Maybe we'd all be dead."

Hermione shook her head, dumbstruck. "But I didn't do anything! It was just... I don't even know, a weird fluke or something."

"You used your knowledge for good," Draco said, with a crooked little grin. "That's not nothing."

"I... suppose not." It still seemed wrong, to be praised or celebrated for something that had been outside of her control. Thinking about the lives saved did help her feel less guilty about taking someone else's, but it was too strange to think of herself as a hero.

"You see? I..." The door to the office opened and Draco's head snapped around. "That's Madam Pomfrey come to make her evening rounds." He laughed as Tonks' dismay became audible. "My cousin has the worst timing, seriously. I suppose I'd better be going." He pulled a face. "But, don't worry, I'll see you tomorrow. And so will Lavender; she stopped by for a bit before dinner today, but you were still out then. I'm sure she'll be happy to see you awake."

"Yeah." The idea that someone would be happy to see her still had the power to warm her insides, even though it was no longer a novelty. Or shouldn't be one, at least. "I get that. I want to see her, too. It feels like it's been way too long."

"Well, you were unconscious for quite a while. We were all worried." He got to his feet with every appearance of reluctance keeping a wary eye on Madam Pomfrey's progress. "Alright, I really have to go now, before she kicks me out."

"Okay." She smiled as warmly as she could, and was rewarded by the beginnings of a blush as he turned away. Once he was gone and replaced by the brisk efficiency of Madam Pomfrey, she said, "You know, I wasn't exactly planning to end up in here again."

The mediwitch clucked her tongue. "No one ever plans to, but after what happened here I'm surprised I didn't end up with even more to do." She sighed, and Hermione could hear the sorrow hidden under her exasperation. A school nurse shouldn't _have_ to deal with the bloody aftermath of a battle.

"It was all over so fast," Hermione said, softly, thinking of those few desperate minutes in which she'd thought that Harry was dead and the war had been lost. They'd seemed like years at the time, but looking back it was all a blur. "I can hardly even tell you what happened."

"People died." Madam Pomfrey spoke bluntly, though it was clear that she was not unaffected by the words. "But not as many as I'd feared. There were some truly horrific injuries, but almost everyone has been stabilised now. We were very fortunate, though it's hard to feel that way."

"It is." Hermione bowed her head for a moment, listening to the soft sound of her own breathing.

"Ah, but we should count our blessings, I suppose." The mediwitch flicked her wand and cast a number of unidentifiable diagnostic spells, eventually remarking, "You most of all, Miss Granger. All that worry, and there's nothing wrong with you."

"Good. I... thank you." The words seemed inadequate, but what else was there?

Madam Pomfrey chuckled. "You're welcome, dear." She busied herself with tidying the table by the bed, pouring out a glass of water. "You've missed dinner, but I can get you some soup now that you're awake."

"Thanks." Hermione was more restless than hungry, but she appreciated the thought. "Um... will I be able to go outside soon, do you think?"

"You should be allowed to leave here by tomorrow," the mediwitch said. "Though the grounds outside are still in rather a state, or so I've gathered from Mr. Filch's mutterings on the subject."

"I suppose they would be." Hermione thought about the battle, that brief spike of chaos that had all but destroyed the maze and had ended with Voldemort's defeat and death. "Still, I'd like to go out."

"I imagine you would, dear." Madam Pomfrey smiled kindly and went to move away. Instead, she nearly ran into Professor Snape, who had presumably approached so quietly that neither of them had heard. "I believe that I have been quite clear on the subject of visiting hours, Severus."

He grimaced. "You have, Poppy. Regardless, I would like to speak to Miss Granger, if only briefly. I was intending to do so earlier, but there were... distractions."

The mediwitch looked up at him for a moment, and whatever she saw in his face made her sigh and step around him. "You have until I return with the soup. No more than that."

"That will be enough, thank you." He gave a respectful nod and then stepped closer to Hermione's bed. Though he looked at the chair, he didn't sit down. "Miss Granger... Hermione. We owe you a lot..."

Hermione cut him off. "Don't. Draco already tried to tell me something like this. I don't need to hear it. I did what I had to, _just like everyone else_. You duelled Voldemort when you must have _known_ it was pointless, just because you couldn't stand to give up. How's that any less significant?"

Professor Snape opened his mouth, closed it again, then let out an undignified snort. "I suppose that's true. We never think much of our own acts of heroism, do we? Even Mr. Potter seemed more embarrassed than proud of all the acclaim he got for killing Voldemort."

"Harry isn't as terrible as all that, you know," Hermione remarked. "And I don't think he has a high opinion of 'heroes'."

"Well, he _is_ one, now, so I suppose he will just have to deal with it." He gave a wry smile. "But you are right, Miss Granger; I find I have a new appreciation for Mr. Potter now that he has made his peace with my – with Sirius. I'm not surprised it took dying and coming back to life to make him take such a step; they are each as stubborn as the other, and it was always going to require some drastic circumstance to cause one of them to reach out again."

"I was glad, too." Hermione had noticed the slip – if it was a slip – but chose not to make anything of it. After all, what business was it of hers what the relationship between Sirius and the Professor was? "It seemed wrong for them to be at odds."

"Comparing this world to the previous one again?" Professor Snape raised an eyebrow, but it was not _quite_ the targeted weapon that it sometimes could be. He seemed more amused than anything else.

"Perhaps." She smirked. "But... now that we've _defeated Voldemort_ in this timeline, I don't think the old one will ever be able to compare."

To her surprise, Professor Snape's first response was to laugh. "That, Miss Granger," he said, after a moment, "is a very good point."

* * *

She drifted in and out of sleep for what must have been several hours, only waking fully when she became aware of someone else moving in the hospital wing. At first she froze, her mind conjuring a variety of scenarios, each more horrific than the last – but then she heard a suspiciously familiar voice whispering in the darkness. Narrowing her eyes slightly, she struggled upright and looked around. There was no longer a screen blocking her off from the rest of the hospital wing, but there were still some around other beds – and she judged that the whispering was coming from behind one of these.

It wasn't really her place to investigate, but her curiosity wouldn't let her rest. She slid softly out of bed and padded quietly across the floor towards the source of the sound, edging carefully around the screen to see...

"Harry."

He spun around so fast that he nearly fell out of his chair. "God, Hermione, what are you...? I nearly had a heart attack!"

"You did not." She looked at the bed next to him, and with a heavy heart saw that Nadya lay there, as motionless as she had been on the field. "I – has she not woken up yet?"

"No." Harry's reply was short, almost snappish, but then he sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "I'm sorry. It's not your fault, just... Madam Pomfrey doesn't know what's wrong with her, but she still won't wake up. I can't... I've got to keep hoping, though, you know? I mean, _you_ were out for a while before you came round."

"Yeah." And yet Nadya was so still, so quiet, such a contrast from the bright and confident young woman she had been before that it made Hermione want to cry just looking at her. How could _Harry_ stand it? "I'm sure she'll be fine." The lie was like ashes in her mouth.

"Just... I wish I'd given her some of the lucky potion." Harry sighed. "Maybe she'd be... not like this now, if I had."

"The Felix Felicis?" Hermione frowned. "You drank it?"

"Yeah, before we came down for the Third Task." Seeing her disapproving look, he protested, "It's not as if that was ever going to be a fair contest anyway, and I thought I might need it. And I did; I wouldn't have known to use the Stone if I hadn't. But I didn't need as _much_ as I drank. I should've given some to the people I cared about. You and Nadya were both injured when I might have been able to spare you that, and I..." Harry grimaced. "I'm not used to thinking about other people."

"There's no way of knowing whether it would have made a difference." Hermione said it because it was true, and because Harry needed to hear it. "And she might still be okay anyway."

"I hope so." He didn't _sound_ hopeful. "I... really liked her."

"I know." Hermione held out a hand. Harry looked at it for a moment before taking it. "I'm sorry."

They sat for a long time in silence, and she hoped that her presence brought him some measure of comfort despite her lack of words. After a while – she had no way to tell exactly how much time had passed – the woman in the bed stirred slightly, and Hermione could feel Harry's fingers tighten around her hand.

"...Nadya?" His plaintive whisper nearly broke Hermione's heart.

"Has she not done that before?"

"Not when I've been looking." Harry sounded suddenly almost cheerful. "Maybe she'll wake up now. Or soon, at least." He looked at her now, his eyes intense and serious. "She will, you know."

And, under that gaze, what else could Hermione do but believe it? "Yeah. You're right. Maybe it'll even be tomorrow."

"Tomorrow," Harry said, and it sounded like a promise. Then: "I suppose we'll see when it gets here."

"Yes," Hermione said – because, after all, wasn't that all anyone could ever do? And who ever really knew what the future would bring? "Tomorrow is another day."

Harry quirked an eyebrow in her direction. "The first day of the rest of our lives?" His tone was more than a little mocking. "I'm sorry, it's just... a little trite, don't you think?"

"Oh, I know it is." She looked from Harry to Nadya and then back again. "But why should that mean it's not true?"

Their eyes met for a moment and then, despite the situation, they both laughed.

Tomorrow would come, and they would be ready to meet it when it did.


End file.
